


Of Perfumes and Plants

by Purplesauris



Series: Vampire Jaskier [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Geralt retires in Toussaint, Higher Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Purring Witchers (The Witcher), Temporary Character Death, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, descirptions of violence, mentions of Lambert/Aiden, perfume making, soap making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: Spurred by an unfortunate accident, Geralt moves through two years without his bard while Jaskier recovers before finally deciding to see what pleases him outside of monster hunting. What is he, besides a Witcher?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Vampire Jaskier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100483
Comments: 27
Kudos: 258





	Of Perfumes and Plants

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I don't have any excuses for what the hell happened here except that @frostedbasilisk is KILLING me with the visuals. Shoutout to poselikeateam (If you're seeing this, please send a message!) For their amazing, inspiring works within the world of higher vampire Jaskier! #frostedbasilisk is also going to be posting a fantastic spread from the market, which I will link!

“Do we have to leave?” Jaskier’s voice is muffled, muddied by the blanket he’s still currently curled up in. Geralt shakes his head, chuckling and tightening the strap over his chest. The length of his blades on his back make him stand a bit straighter, and he welcomes their weight. 

“It’s spring. The monsters will be thawing, and by the time we make it back to Lyria there should be plenty of work.” 

“There are monsters here, where it’s warm.” Jaskier points out, sliding from the bed and letting the blanket fall to reveal every inch of his skin. Geralt watches the way he pads over, feline grace hidden in each movement, and Geralt still loses his breath at the sight. They’ve been together for a few months now, and every time he wakes up with Jaskier in his arms, falls into bed with his lips touching skin, he fears he’ll wake up alone. He hasn’t yet, won’t- Jaskier is a very warm, very willing participant in this dream of Geralt’s, and no amount of waking up will make it any less real. Geralt hums when a warm hand slips to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. 

“You can stay, if you want.” Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier away from his side if he can help it, but if Jaskier really doesn’t want to leave he can’t force him.

The scoff Jaskier lets out is almost a growl, and Geralt’s lips twitch when Jaskier kisses him hard before pulling back. “I told you, wolf. Where you go, I go.”

“Even if it’s cold?”

“The cold doesn’t affect me.” Jaskier shoots back, frowning when Geralt’s smile grows. Geralt knows it doesn’t, especially now, but Jaskier complains like a human anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, pulling back and waving a hand his way while he goes to get dressed. 

“Insufferable, absolutely intolerable.” Geralt chuckles at that, knowing Jaskier doesn’t mean it in any true capacity. He goes over the list he’s made in his head while Jaskier pulls on clothes, trying to make sure he has everything they’ll need. He’s had Roach saddled for an hour now, and he can hear her occasionally stomp outside, impatient. Most of Geralt’s things have been tucked away, and Jaskier only has what he brought with him from last fall to pack up. Some of it, like his books, can stay at the vineyard. Geralt has a feeling he’ll be back sooner rather than later. “Breakfast first, love?”

“Ate already.” 

“Eager, hmm? Give me just a minute, darling.” Jaskier slips out the door and up the stairs to the guest bedroom, where all his things are. Despite the fact that Jaskier stayed in his room, he’d been too lazy to drag all his things downstairs. Geralt is at the door, talking quietly with Marlene when Jaskier bounds down the stairs, lute on his back and satchel on his hip. Geralt doesn’t stop in his conversation, but Jaskier can feel his attention in the gentle way his nostrils flare and the way his head twitches toward the noise of Jaskier’s footsteps. Geralt allows Marlene to squeeze him in a quick hug, pressing a wrapped bundle into his hands that smells of salted meat and bread. Lunch, it seems.

Jaskier, much to his surprise, gets a quick hug and a chuck under his chin, Marlene smiling softly. “Take care of him, Master Jaskier. Make sure he eats.”

“Of course.” Marlene sends them off without another word, Geralt collecting Roach and getting their bags settled. It’s nice, to set out on the road again after so long, and Geralt enjoys being under the sun with a direction in mind. He can’t seem to stop the smile from tugging at his lips when he hears Jaskier strum at his lute. It’s all so familiar to him, this routine of theirs, but it’s different in a way it never was before. Now when Jaskier sings love songs he can feel, can believe when Jaskier means the words for him. He can enjoy when Jaskier’s shoulder brushes against him, when the bard winks and sings a particularly raunchy lyric. There are some things that Geralt does automatically though, like stop to let Jaskier have a rest despite the fact that he’s as bright eyed as he was when they left. He doesn’t need it, and tells Geralt as much, but Geralt just says that Roach needs a break too.

They make good time even with the stops, and they’re closer to Lyria than Geralt had hoped when the sun finally drops below the horizon. Setting up camp in the dark, while usually a nuisance, is easier. Geralt laments the fact that he didn’t know sooner what Jaskier was, to see the pretty way that Jaskier’s eyes glow. It’s much like his own eyes- eerie and off putting, but Geralt finds himself staring and standing still just so that Jaskier will look over at him and smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle in the cutest way, and the faint luminescence of Jaskier’s iris’ light up the veins in his eyelids. Jaskier clears a spot for their bedrolls while Geralt hunts for dinner, and he sits by the fire, turning the rabbits before closing his eyes and letting out a soft breath. 

“It’s nice to be back on the Path.” Jaskier says, reading his mind and taking the words he was going to say from his lips. Geralt hums when Jaskier rubs a hand across his back, relishing the casual touch. 

“Winter was long.”

“Ah, but not boring. Never boring with you, darling.” A kiss is placed on the crown of Geralt’s head, and he huffs a laugh. 

“Suck up.” Geralt hears Jaskier snort above him, and he jumps when Jaskier leans down, quick as an alp, and nips at his neck. The groan that comes from him makes his cheeks warm, and he huffs as Jaskier laughs and presses a kiss to the spot.

“If I remember, and I do, you’re very fond of my being a suck up.”

“Fonder when you’re quiet.” Geralt hears Jaskier’s breath hitch in his throat, and he thinks he might have done something wrong, but he’s very quickly got a lap full of bard and very insistent lips on his neck. His hands slip up to steady Jaskier in his lap, thumbs smoothing over Jaskier’s hip bones and pressing in lightly. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a sweet noise as he kisses his way up to whisper in Geralt’s ear.

“I can be quiet.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier scoffs at the obvious skepticism, and Geralt smiles when Jaskier very pointedly goes silent. Geralt wants to point out that their food will burn if they aren’t careful, but Jaskier’s lips are soft against his own, and Jaskier runs fingers through his hair, tugging just enough at the strands to have Geralt losing focus. Geralt spends his time tasting Jaskier, lapping into his mouth and trying not to laugh against Jaskier’s lips when the man shudders in his arms. He’s reactive in all of the best ways, pliant and bashful under his hands. Geralt pulls back when he smells a flare of burnt flesh, Jaskier chasing his lips and growling when he’s denied. He leans, Jaskier going with him as he plucks the meat from over the fire, saving it. Jaskier whines quietly, low in his throat, and Geralt raises a brow, offering the rabbit to Jaskier. Jaskier looks like food is the last thing on his mind, pupils wide, and Geralt hums. 

“Last night not enough?”

“Never.” Jaskier’s voice is husky, and the sound goes straight through Geralt. He supposes he could eat later.

They retire to bed much, much earlier than expected, and they’re laying together, Jaskier humming quietly as his heart settles back into its normal rhythm when Geralt speaks.

“That’s not very quiet.” Jaskier laughs, turning to place a couple of open mouthed kisses on Geralt’s collarbone before settling down again. 

“Practice makes perfect?” Geralt makes a noncommittal noise, hugging Jaskier close before slipping out from under the bard. He can hear Jaskier groan in protest, but Geralt comes back with a small washcloth, wiping the two of them up before helping Jaskier back into his clothes. He settles himself back down, tugging Jaskier close and shutting his eyes. He hasn’t eaten, and really should, but he doesn’t care much and he can eat in the morning. For now, he just wants to hold Jaskier close and drift off, the scent of lavender and leaves a comfort.

Just under the crackle of their fire, hidden, is the soft sound of feet on dirt and leaves. Jaskier moves from his side, wrenching from him suddenly, and Geralt’s eyes snap open. His hand goes to his sword immediately, the ring of steel resounding in the air as he whirls to his feet. His heart clenches in his chest when he sees Jaskier, sleepy and disoriented, struggling between two men who wrench his arms back, drawing a cry from the bard. Geralt snarls, lips stretching wide to show off usually hidden fangs. He starts forward, fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, eyes on Jaskier and only Jaskier.

“Let him go.” His own voice is foreign to his ears, and he hears Roach whinny at the same time he feels a blade sing through the air. Geralt ducks, slipping under the blade and slashing upward. The bandit behind him cries out, sword dropping to the dirt as he presses hands to the soft, exposed flesh of his belly, trying desperately to hold his guts in. Geralt hisses, low and dangerous, and stops dead when he sees the blade glinting near Jaskier’s throat.

“Get back, mutant. You shouldn’t have come to this forest.”

“Jaskier,  _ please _ .” Geralt’s voice is quiet, and he knows that Jaskier could break the hold easily, could disappear into smoke, but Jaskier’s eyes are wide and scared. He should have asked, should have known what Jaskier was comfortable doing. Revealing himself to these bandits, even as low as they are, terrifies Jaskier more than the blade at his throat, and Geralt chokes on the sour scent of Jaskier’s fear. Geralt can’t move, rooted to the spot as a sword raises, sailing through the air toward Jaskier. His body loosens all at once and he launches forward, roaring and catching one of the men with a blade straight through the ribcage, punching through his sternum with a messy crunch. He falls dead at Geralt’s feet as something else falls with a dull thud, and the harsh copper of blood clogs Geralt’s nose. 

He can’t look, he knows what he smells and he can’t  _ look. _ The other man, the one holding the sword covered in Jaskier’s blood backs up, stumbling over a log and falling straight on his ass. A noise unlike any that Geralt has ever made rattles from his chest, and he lunges, sword plunging into the man’s chest even as he cries for Geralt to wait. Geralt’s breath rasps in his throat as he wipes his blade off, and he turns from the carnage, heart beating faster and faster in his chest. He can’t- he can’t bear to look at Jaskier, the awful way his head’s been severed, but he can hear Jaskier’s heart beating as steadily as ever. He knows he’s alive, knows it in his mind, but the sight of Jaskier’s doublet covered in blood brings tears to his eyes and a cold, hollow ache to his chest. 

He breaks their camp in a rush, shoving the bandit’s bodies away. Let someone else find them and think a new monster has cropped up. Better than the alternative. Geralt gather’s Jaskier up as gently as he can, draping him over Roach and murmuring soothing words when she skitters anxiously to the side. She can smell the wrongness in Jaskier’s blood, the inhumanness, but Geralt uses axii when needed to keep her calm. He rides hard back toward Toussaint, back toward his home. He can’t keep Jaskier out in the forest, can’t lug him along on his contracts, and Geralt doesn’t know how long he’s going to take to heal. He passes by a flock of crows and stops suddenly, Roach rearing up and threatening to toss him off. He stares at the crows until one looks at him, tilting its head, and then he speaks.

“He needs help. Meet me at Corvo.” The bird takes flight with the rest of its brethren, and Geralt can only hope that they’ll get the message back. Geralt’s still an hour out, but the sky is dark and Geralt isn’t worried about anyone seeing him ride with a corpse in his lap. He leaves Roach standing in the courtyard when he gallops into the vineyard, sliding from her back with Jaskier in his arms. His hip protests with each step he takes, sore from the saddle, but Geralt limps into the house, grateful that it seems to be empty. There are candles lit in his room, and his knees go weak when he senses Regis beyond the door. Regis doesn’t say anything at first, taking Jaskier from him and laying him out gently on the bed. His movements are quick, methodical, and Geralt sags back against the door. Geralt watches as Regis slices a groove through his palm, letting blood drip over Jaskier’s neck before neatly fitting Jaskier’s head back to the body. He sews around the cut in small, even stitches, and once done has Geralt lift him so a bandage can be wrapped around the bard’s neck. Regis settles him a bit more comfortably, leaning low to sniff before stepping back, apparently satisfied. 

Regis’ attention turns to Geralt now, and his eyes are soft. “You did good, Geralt. He’ll be fine, given enough time.”

“He wouldn’t break free- he wouldn’t- I couldn’t- he  _ wouldn’t move _ -.” Geralt isn’t making any sense, knows he isn’t, and his fingers are curled so tight he can feel his joints popping uncomfortably. He can hear the soft noise Jaskier had let out, the scrape of metal against bone in his head, and his stomach rolls in a way it never has before. 

“Breathe, Geralt.  _ Breathe _ .” He pulls in one breath, then two, and Regis takes his hands, forcing Geralt’s fingers to uncurl and release the tension in his joints. “There are some times, Geralt, that one must choose to be hurt, to avoid ruination.”

“He would've- I could’ve- they’re  _ dead _ .” Geralt looks over at Jaskier laid out on the bed, blood staining the sheets and clothes ruined. 

“What if he had, and one of them escaped? He’s nearly as famous as you, White Wolf.” Geralt shakes his head, choking back a sob and gripping Regis’ hands tight. “He made his decision, knowing it would be hard on you. But, the alternative would have been worse.”

“I know.” Regis’ words cut through the rising panic in his head, and he knew he was being illogical. He knew that Jaskier had a reason for everything. It doesn’t make it any easier to see his best friend and newly made lover decapitated. Geralt takes a deep breath, holds it, and then drops Regis’ hands, going to sit next to Jaskier. “How long?”

“It’s difficult to say. With my intervention it will be shorter than normal, but I wouldn’t expect him back for at least a year, maybe two.”

“A year.” Geralt’s voice is dead in his ears, flat and iced over, and he reaches to brush a lock of hair off of Jaskier’s forehead. “There’s nothing else to be done?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. The best thing for you would be to get back on the Path.” Geralt recoils, looking at Regis with wide eyes. 

“I can’t leave him here.”

“You must. You’ll do no good hiding away amongst the grapes. Take the night, and head out in the morning. I’ll remain by his side through it.” Regis places a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder, black eyes melancholic, and Geralt sighs heavily. He leaves Regis with Jaskier while he tends to Roach, bringing her back to her stable and wiping her down. She’s covered in sweat and old blood, and Geralt settles her down as best he can. She headbutts him when he gets too close, as if to tell him it will be okay, and he presses his forehead to the long bridge of her nose. She allows the moment, nickering softly and bucking her head up gently. 

“Yeah, back inside.” When Geralt comes back Regis has disappeared. He’s certain the man has only gone back home for supplies, but Geralt takes the time to clean Jaskier up. He’s gentle, afraid of doing something to damage Jaskier further, but he cleans the blood off his skin and gets him out of his ruined clothes. He doesn’t bother to redress him, instead tucking him under the blankets and stripping his own armor off. He’s covered in blood, both Jaskier’s and the bandits, and he scrubs at his clothes, watching the red slowly stain the water. The menial tasks at hand help, and by the time he’s gotten the clothes hung exhaustion drags at his limbs. He shouldn’t be tired, but he feels soul weary, as if one misstep will send him careening off a cliff he can’t make his way back up. Geralt curls up on the other side of the bed, closing his eyes and listening to the beat of Jaskier’s heart.

-*-

Regis sends him off the next morning, true to his word. It’s odd to ride Roach out alone, to have only the sound of her soft breathing and his own heartbeat to fill the silence. He rides through the day and into the night, passing the spot where they’d stopped before and continuing on. He stops just outside of Lyria, allowing Roach to rest while he listens to the owls hooting. He can’t bring himself to sleep, not yet, and even when he does lay down he can’t seem to drift off. He can’t sleep for the life of him, not alone out in the forest, and for once he seeks out towns. At least when he’s in a shitty room in a shitty inn he can hear other people, snoring and yelling and making a ruckus. It’s better than the silence that follows him around the Continent. 

Hunts take longer now, too. Not because Jaskier helped finish them, but because he was there to help  _ Geralt _ . Now when he stumbles back to camp or whatever inn he’s in, bleeding and dizzy, no one is there to catch him. No one patches the wounds that he can’t reach. It’s stupid, how much he came to rely on Jaskier for things, and rewiring himself to do it alone takes half the year. He takes as many contracts as he can, just to keep himself busy, and when fall grips the land tight he wonders where he should turn. He wants to go south, to see him again and know that he’s doing okay, but Regis seems to know him better than he knows himself. A crow lands near him in the forest one day, a small paper tied to its leg. Geralt gets a peck on the hand for his troubles, but he gets the little tube and unrolls it.

_ Go north _ . 

And so he does. He walks the path up past Oxenfurt, through Kaedwen and into the blue mountains. The path is unforgiving, and he’s almost too late to make it through the pass, but he manages, coming upon the gates of Kaer Morhen trembling with the cold. Lambert and Eskel welcome him with open arms, and Geralt falls into the routine of the keep as if he never left. He stays up late with Eskel and Lambert, rises early to do his chores before training. He goes through the motions as best he can, but his body is on autopilot, his mind and heart a thousand miles to the south. They notice of course, and they’re sat around the fire in the library, mugs of ale in hand when Eskel broaches the subject.

“What happened?” Geralt makes a sound in his throat, swirling his drink before tossing back a mouthful. It’s some god awful swill that Lambert’s been making, but it’s alcohol and that’s all Geralt cares about. “You aren’t here with us, Geralt. Your body is, but  _ you _ aren’t. What happened on the Path?”

“He’s moping over that bard of his, dumbass.” Lambert cuts in, and neither of them miss the full body flinch that jerks through Geralt. Ale sloshes on his fingers at the movement, and when he looks up Lambert and Eskel are staring at him, pity in their eyes.

“Did he reject you?”

“No.  _ No _ .” Geralt grinds out, and he doesn't know how to say what happened, doesn’t know what he  _ can _ say. “He- was injured. While on the Path.”

“Oh.” Geralt can feel the unspoken question.  _ Is he dead? _ He shakes his head and hears twin sighs of relief. Eskel’s voice is gentle when he speaks, and Geralt hates the way his eyes burn. “Is that why he isn’t here?”

“Yes. I- had to leave him with a healer.” Geralt knocks back the rest of his drink, idly tracing the grains of the wood cup. "We got together last winter."

"Told you Toussaint would work." Lambert's voice is smug, and for the first time in a while, Geralt lets out something akin to a laugh. “So, tell us how it happened.”

“How what happened?” Geralt knows there’s nothing he can say about Jaskier’s injury without revealing what he is, and he prays that isn’t what Lambert is asking for.

“How you finally gathered the stones to tell him.”

“Regis.” Geralt holds his cup out to Lambert, who refills it from the pitcher at his side. Only once he’s drained half his cup does he continue. Neither of them are going to let him leave it at that, golden eyes intent on him. “I brought Jaskier to meet him, and on the way home he got a confession out of me.”

“Was Jaskier awake to hear it?” Geralt tilts his head at Eskel, lips twitching.

“He was. Pretended that he was too drunk to remember in the morning.”

“Smart little shit. That’s something I would do.” Both Geralt and Eskel say  _ we know _ at the same time, and Lambert scowls. Geralt can feel himself smile, and the tension in his body loosens a bit. It’s easier to think about the good memories of Jaskier he has, and talking…. Makes it easier. Eskel and Lambert manage to pry more stories from him, but Geralt is slow to spill and even more careful when talking about what happened over the past winter. Still, they’re happy to sit and listen to Geralt’s stories for as long as he’ll talk, and eventually Geralt manages to coax a story or two from Lambert about whoever’s been following him around. Well, coaxing is a strong word. They have to practically force it out of him, but once he gets going they can’t stop him.

It’s nice, to see his face soften from its scowl, for his eyes to go liquid and warm as he talks. His name is Aiden, they get that much from him, and they’ve been skirting around each other for a year or two now. 

“When’s the wedding?” Eskel pipes up at one point, grin on his face, and Lambert throws his empty cup at his brother's head. Geralt laughs, dodging the empty pitcher that flies at his head in retaliation.

“Har fuckin har guys, it’s not like I’ve been pining after him for  _ twenty _ years.” 

“Not pining anymore.” Geralt points out, though his cheeks are warm from the shot taken at him. “Are you going to bring him up for a winter?”

“Are you going to bring Jaskier?” Lambert fires back, and Geralt’s nod is instant.

“As soon as he’s well enough to make the climb. It… won’t be this year.”

“Ah shit. Fine, I’ll bring him if you bring your bard. Gives me time to convince the bastard.” Geralt nods, already thinking about what it would be like to have Jaskier here. The nights would be louder, that’s for sure. He can already imagine the way that Jaskier would marvel over the way sound bounces off the walls inside. 

“Good thing your room is a level below us.” Lambert snorts, choking on his drink and coughing. The glare he levels on Geralt is hot enough to melt steel, but Geralt meets him with a raised brow. 

“I don’t think it’s  _ us _ you have to worry about. You’re dating someone with the loudest profession on the Continent.” Lambert has a point, but Geralt only shrugs.

“He can be quiet.” 

“I highly doubt that.” Geralt hums, hiding his smile behind his cup. 

-*-

Spring comes late this year, and by the time the witchers come down from the mountain, monsters are out in force. Lambert shoots east, Eskel west, and Geralt heads south. It’s the busiest spring for him in years, and he’s grateful that Jaskier isn’t with him. He keeps a grueling pace, only stopping for Roach’s sake and when he absolutely has to sleep. He fights his way through the countryside, heading ever slowly south. He loses count of how many nekker nests and drowner infestations he takes care of, how many times his work takes him into graveyards or abandoned ruins. 

His worst, most confusing night comes at the end of summer. There are rumors of something carrying people off into the forest, and from the remains he finds, it can only be one thing. Some kind of vampire. The lack of blood makes it hard to track, but each person has a distinct smell, and Geralt uses those mingling scents to find the vampire’s home. He has the uncanny feeling that this vampire is more intelligent than it lets on. The scents lead to an old elven ruin, half toppled by the elements, but Geralt sees stairs going down and groans. He chokes down Cat, eyesight sharpening in the dark, and descends the stairs, his silver blade firmly in hand. He coughs quietly at the smell of the ruin, trying not to breathe too deep lest he begin to taste things. He can smell old, rotting blood mixed with the scent of dust and dirt and decay. Whatever vampire has been rampaging has been trying to store the blood for later.

Geralt’s amulet gives an angry hum against his chest suddenly, and he leaps out of the way as a woman springs from the shadows. She’s gaunt, hip bones jutting out alarmingly and skin tight to her ribcage. Her fingers are long, wickedly sharp claws, and Geralt hops back as she advances, screeching and hissing. He wards off her blows as best he can, spinning and dancing around in the cramped room of the ruin. She disappears from his sight with an angry hiss, and he keeps a sharp ear out for the soft scuffle of her feet. She’s hungry, and that means she’s clumsy. When claws rake across his side and up his back he swears loudly, stumbling and pressing a hand as blood pours from the wound. Maybe not as clumsy as he thought. She’s aimed right for the weakest parts of his armor, and he keeps a hand pressed firmly to slow the bleeding as she flickers back into view.

They circle each other, her pupils wide and dark, and he sees recognition flicker over her face. She goes still, sniffing, and then takes a few steps back. Horror overtakes her face, and Geralt should take the time to strike her down, but he frowns in confusion.

“Didn’t- know.” Her common is rusty, thick and rolling in her mouth, and Geralt stops completely. He doesn’t dare put his sword away, but he’s losing blood rapidly and he can feel it burning down his side. “Tell him- didn’t know.”

A startling realization comes over Geralt then. “His scent is on me, isn’t it?”

“In your blood. I did not know you were his.” The bruxa backs away until she’s against the rockface, and Geralt frowns. 

“You're afraid of him? Not me?”

“Your killing would be a mercy compared to-” The word she says at the end is none that Geralt has ever heard, grating and harsh, but something in him recognizes it. Geralt takes a deep breath then, steadying himself and sliding his sword back into its sheath. It’s a stupid idea and he’ll blame it on the blood loss later, but he levels a look at her.

“You have to leave. There’s a contract for your death.”

“You would… spare me?”

“Just this once. If I get another contract, I can’t let it continue.”

“I will go. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I need a lock of your hair, and a bit of blood.” 

He retreats back to town with the lock of hair, the ends dipped in her blood as if she’d fallen. Geralt doesn’t want to fool them, but the bruxa left as soon as Geralt had what he needed, and he’s still got the vial of her blood. If need be, he’s sure Jaskier could find her easily with it. The village alderman, while not pleased with the evidence, pays Geralt the coin he’s owed, and Geralt slinks back to his campsite on the edge of town. He downs a dose of Swallow on his way, ignoring the uncomfortable way his skin itches as the cut in his side begins to heal. Getting his armor off is a bitch alone, and he tears the partially healed cut open again twice before he finally wiggles out of the ruined armor. He’ll have to get it repaired at the next town over. 

The cut starts on his ribs, a couple inches below his right nipple and curves viciously across his ribs and up his back. He can feel that it stops a few inches shy of the bottom of his shoulder blade, tugging with every movement. It would heal faster if he were able to stitch it, but he can’t reach it and he collapses onto his bedroll instead. A second dose of Swallow has his blood pounding through him and his side itching like mad, but he curls up on his good side and tries to sleep. He isn’t going to be able to move or do much of use until his side heals. Dreams of crows and blood haunt him through the night, and he wakes up twice to the sound of flapping wings, sweat coating his body and side aching fiercely. He looks around, listening and waiting, but the crows don’t come back, and he slips back into an uneasy sleep. The sun burns across his skin through the trees when he rouses, and Geralt feels hot and cold all at once. He isn’t healing as quickly as he’d like, and he hisses when his side pulls. The cut smells of decay, and Geralt pants as he washes it, fingers trembling and nausea battering him in relentless waves. He pours Swallow straight over the cut, jerking and swearing at the way it sizzles angrily against the wound. He can still feel the lingering effects from the other potions, but he finishes off the vial anyway and then lays down to rest.

Yennefer finds him that way, curled up in a ball, panting and gritting his teeth. The scent of lilac and gooseberries hits him first, and his head whips up. He struggles to sit up, but Yennefer scoffs and waves a hand.

“Save your strength. Where’s Jaskier?”

“Yennefer.” Geralt’s voice is a warning, and he snarls when she crouches, prodding at his side with a slight frown on her face. “He isn’t here.”

“Obviously. That’s not what I’m asking. Did you drink your potions?”

“I’m not dead.” Geralt replies, Yennefer rolling her eyes and standing up. “What do you want, Yen?”

“Jaskier was supposed to visit me this past fall, to help with a project. He didn’t show.”

“He was… Indisposed.” He listens as Yennefer begins rummaging through his packs. He has no clue what she could be searching for, and he’d be more irritated over the invasion of privacy if his head wasn’t swimming the way it is. Yennefer comes back with cloth and water, and Geralt grunts as she tends to the wound on his side. She’s not gentle, but Geralt can handle the pain as she presses a poultice to the cut and wraps him tightly in bandages. 

“He was injured, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Still asleep?” Geralt goes still at that, eyeing Yennefer suspiciously and slowly sitting up. Whatever poultice Yennefer has crafted does wonders for his pain, and he pins her with a look as he struggles to his feet to find a shirt. Getting it on without pulling his cut is harder than he expected, but Yennefer isn’t inclined to help and Geralt isn’t inclined to let her. “Geralt, it’s touching you want to protect his secret, but I know very well what he is.”

“He’s still asleep.” Geralt relents, flicking his fingers toward the wood in the firepit he didn’t bother to start last night. It roars to life, crackling merrily, and Yennefer settles herself on a log, one leg crossed over the other. “What did you need him for?”

“His blood is extraordinarily useful. I merely needed a sample, but he wasn’t with you this year.” Yennefer tilts her head at him, as if studying a particularly interesting problem. “Though, perhaps your blood would work as well.”

“Not a vampire.” Geralt points out, raising a brow when Yennefer waves her hand.

“You’ve been claimed by one, and a powerful one at that. It makes you… unique. May I?”

“I won’t wake up under your control, or to a clone of me, will I?” Geralt isn’t particularly fond of the idea of Yennefer taking his blood and using it for…. Things. But it’s better than her hunting down Jaskier just to bother him. 

“Not this time.” Humor colors her voice, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” Geralt allows Yennefer to take her sample, sitting deathly still while she cuts into his skin. It stings faintly, but that cut heals quickly, much easier than the one on his side. There must have been something on the bruxa’s claws that impedes his healing. Yennefer tucks the vial of blood she’s collected away and cleans her hands off. A portal shimmers to life behind her, his medallion humming in its presence, and he hmms. “Leaving before tea?”

“I’m already behind on my work.” Yennefer pauses before stepping through, looking back over her shoulder. “Give him my regards when he wakes.”

Yennefer disappears through the portal before Geralt can say anything else, and he sits by the fire for a while before struggling into his armor. His swords are impossible to draw with his right hand, so he straps them on to be accessible to his left. It’ll confuse anyone who sees him, since witchers aren’t supposed to be left handed, but Geralt doesn’t care. He eats a small meal, waiting until he knows his stomach will hold before he leaves again. He stops in the next town to repair his armor and mix more potions, restocking on Swallow and anything else that’s run low. Whatever Yennefer put on his side seems to work, and by the time his armor is repaired and he leaves town he’s healed fully. The scar is large and jagged, thanks to the lack of stitches, but what’s one more in a collection of hundreds?

Geralt is more careful around vampire contracts now- most of them recognize him, or recognize who he belongs to, and they keep a wide berth from him. It makes contracts harder, for sure, but like the bruxa before, most prefer their end at his silver blade if it has to come. He can’t very well stop taking the contracts, but his stomach twists strangely every time he has to hunt one down and see the fear and recognition in their eyes. It’s… too human an emotion. Geralt is in Lyria by the time winter takes hold of the Continent, and though he’d be blocked from getting to Kaer Morhen this late, he’s perfectly on track to get back to Toussaint. No letter had come by crow telling him to go north this year, though no letter had come to say he’d woken up either. He’ll have to chance it.

His ride into Toussaint passes by him in a blur. There’s no giant to fight at the crossroads like years ago, and he doesn’t bother stopping at the Cockatrice inn to rest. His only goal is to get back to Jaskier and the vineyard. Geralt doesn’t realize he’s close until he smells grapes, still far from ripe, and the faint tang of olives. He drags in a breath, sliding from Roach’s back and walking the rest of the way. It gives his hip a chance to settle again and takes most of the weight off of Roach. He’s itching to bolt inside when he finally sees the house, but he gets Roach untacked and brushed down before even thinking about going inside. He slings his packs over his shoulder, trudging up to the house and giving B.B. a tired smile. 

“Welcome back, Master Geralt.”

“Thanks B.B.” The majordomo dips into a bow, smiling, and Geralt heads into his room. The door isn’t locked, and that should worry him, but he can hear Regis inside, talking quietly. His heart leaps into his throat, but he doesn’t hear anyone reply and he shoves into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Regis glances up from his book when he comes in, and Geralt stops, brows raising. Regis has somehow dragged an armchair into the bedroom and shoved it against the wall by the window. “Comfortable?”

“He enjoys being read to.” Regis nods toward the bed, and Geralt sets his things down before heading for the bed. Jaskier’s eyes are still shut, skin pale, but his eyes move behind his lids whenever one of them talks. 

"Must be bored to death.” Geralt hears Jaskier’s heart kick up a notch when he talks, and that makes something warm and bright light up in his chest. “He hasn’t woken up at all?”

“No, but he’s close, I believe. His neck is all but healed.” Geralt glances at Jaskier’s neck, and the bandages and stitches are gone. There’s only the thinnest line of a scar, and when Geralt traces it he feels nothing but smooth skin. He's never seen a scar on Jaskier before- anything marking his skin at all seemed to be gone when they met next. Geralt takes a few steps away to strip out of his armor, and Regis eyes the repair on his side and the way he still favors it. Geralt doesn't say anything about it, but he can tell Regis is curious and he rucks his shirt up to the side to let him see anyhow. Regis rises to his feet quickly, and he peers at it curiously. 

“Mina did this.” The name yanks at something in Geralt, and he drops his shirt, frowning. Regis steeples his fingers as he sits back down in his chair and Geralt goes to sit by Jaskier, holding his pale hand. “Did it heal quickly?”

“No. Yennefer found me burning with fever and had to put some kind of poultice on me.” 

“So she still poisons. Hm. Good to know some things haven’t changed. Is she dead?” Geralt’s lips twist into a grimace, and he shakes his head.

“Not this time.” It feels like a weakness to admit, but Regis seems pleased by the answer and that makes Geralt relax. “Thank you, for being here.”

“He would do the same for me.” Regis’ voice is fond, and he listens as Regis gets up once more, coming over to touch Geralt’s shoulder lightly. “He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“I’ll be okay.” Geralt trusts in Jaskier, probably more than most people would say he should. Regis pats his shoulder, sighing and shaking his head at the both of them. 

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on him, sooner if I feel he wakes.” Geralt nods, and Regis finally takes his leave, slipping out the door without another word. He doesn’t move from his spot on the bed, sitting facing Jaskier as he brings the hand he’s holding up to his mouth. He kisses each knuckle softly, watching the way that Jaskier’s nostrils twitch and his eyes move. 

“I missed you. Everything is… harder without you around.” Geralt takes a deep breath, and there are a thousand things he wants to say, but he wants Jaskier to say something  _ back _ . So he holds back his stories, and says something else instead. “I love you, Jaskier, and I was so scared. More scared than I’ve ever been-”

Grief chokes Geralt suddenly, and he clears his throat, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead to ward off the burning behind his eyes. He laughs at himself then- for decades, years upon years he told himself to be emotionless. To care little and show even less. But Jaskier is so good at flipping things on their head, at dragging words from Geralt he wouldn’t have said in a thousand years. He’s overwhelmed with emotion that he’s struggled so hard to control, and he presses his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, just to feel part of him close and know he’s here. The hand tugs from his grip suddenly, and Geralt’s eyes flick up to meet Jaskier’s as they fly open.

Jaskier’s hands go up to his throat, cupping his neck as his lips form a wordless cry of pain. Geralt hates the sight, but there’s nothing he can do as Jaskier gasps, breath rasping from his throat as his back arches off the bed. He reaches for him then, smoothing Jaskier’s hair away from his forehead. Jaskier notices him, pupils constricting as he stares with dark, wide eyes. “Jask, it’s okay-”

But there isn’t anything resembling recognition in his eyes when he calms, and Geralt swears, leaping back away from the bed as Jaskier lunges. He dances away from Jaskier, and Jaskier comes after him with singular focus. There’s only so much room for him to work with, and Geralt knocks into the fireplace, turning as Jaskier reaches out to snatch him up. His fingers dig into the brick as Geralt ducks, and he doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier, not more than he is already. Geralt stops suddenly. He’s in pain, and Geralt knows what Jaskier wants. He’s given it to him freely a dozen times already- why is now different? Geralt raises his hands and Jaskier goes still, watching as Geralt inches over to the chair that Regis dragged in. He sits himself down, hands still in the air, and he watches as Jaskier’s hands clench and unclench beside him.

“Come here.” He lowers his hands, opening his arms in invitation, and the chair slams against the wall as his lap is very quickly commandeered. Jaskier’s weight bears down on him, and he’s not heavy, but he’s strong and Geralt knows he isn’t going to budge without a fight. “Jaskier. Jaskier, look at me.”

His name seems to rouse him a bit, and he looks startled. “Ger...alt.” 

“It’s me, Jask. Just me.” Geralt reaches up, freezing when Jaskier catches his wrist in an iron grip. He ignores the way that Jaskier’s fingers dig into the tendons on the soft underside of his wrist, moving to cup Jaskier’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone. “I know you’re in pain. Let me help.”

Jaskier whimpers then, as if there’s nothing more he would want, and Geralt tugs his wrist away, grabbing Jaskier’s hand. In one small movement he uses one of Jaskier’s nails to score a deep, bloody scratch into his neck. He hears Jaskier’s breath catch in his throat, and Geralt relaxes as Jaskier takes hold of his shoulders, pinning him back against the chair as he leans forward. Jaskier’s tongue is hot and wet as he laps over the cut, shuddering in Geralt’s lap. Jaskier’s tongue chases any drops that escape, and Geralt murmurs soft words of encouragement. Just that small taste seems to have Jaskier relaxing, and Geralt wonders if he truly has that much control. The thought is stolen away quickly when fangs plunge into his neck, Jaskier’s grip bruising as he holds Geralt still and drinks his fill. Geralt shudders at the warmth that bleeds through his limbs, but this is different. This isn’t just Jaskier drinking for the pleasure of having a taste. With each draw of Geralt’s blood color comes back to him, and soon he has a very warm, very drunk vampire in his lap. 

He expects Jaskier to stop then, to pull back, but he’s still drinking greedily and Geralt grabs weakly at Jaskier’s ribs. He pushes lightly, and usually that would be enough for Jaskier to pull away, but he doesn't, nails digging crescents into Geralt's shoulders. Geralt tries not to panic, thinking through what he could do when Jaskier's teeth wrench from his neck, leaving only blood and white-hot pain coursing through him. He sways forward immediately when Jaskier is plucked from his lap, and he watches with blurry eyes as Regis pins the younger vampire to the floor. His voice is low, urgent, but Geralt can’t hear anything over the rushing of his own blood in his ears. Geralt raises a hand, plants it against the arm of the chair, and promptly falls forward onto his face.

-*-

“ _ Enough _ , Jaskier.” Jaskier struggles against Regis, gasping, but Regis’ grip is punishing and he’s very carefully holding his breath. “Get a hold of yourself, before you kill him.”

Those words are like ice down his back, and Jaskier stops suddenly. He lays underneath Regis for a moment before his breath hiccups, and his voice is shaking when he talks. 

“I’m sorry. Regis, go, before you do something you don’t want to do.”

“I’m not leaving you here.” Jaskier can hear the resolve wavering in Regis’ voice, and Jaskier motions for Regis to let him up. Regis’ eyes keep darting toward Geralt’s form crumpled onto the ground, and Jaskier grabs Regis’ upper arm. The noise that rings from his is embarrassing, but it sobers Regis enough for him to nod. “I tried to warn him.”

“Go.” Regis doesn’t stay any longer than he needs to, ducking out as Jaskier closes and locks the door behind him. He can get in if he really tries, but Jaskier isn’t worried at the moment. He darts over to Geralt, lifting him off the ground and hauling him into bed. His own hands are shaking now that his wits have come back to him, and he checks to make sure Geralt’s still breathing. His heart beats so slowly that for a moment Jaskier’s ears fail to catch the sound, and he tucks his ear against Geralt's chest just to hear its faint flutter. Once he’s certain Geralt isn’t dead he gets himself dressed, ducking out of the room to gather food and water and anything else he thinks he’s going to need. Jaskier’s first task is to clean the bite mark on Geralt’s neck- Jaskier doesn't trust himself enough right now to seal it shut, so he’ll have to heal on his own. He isn’t sure whether Geralt will choke, but he forces a dose of Swallow down Geralt’s throat anyway, sighing in relief when color slowly returns to Geralt’s cheeks.

Once he’s got Geralt settled he looks around, trying to guess how long he was out. He goes to rummage around in Geralt’s things, and he sees the repair work done to Geralt’s side, the new sword that Geralt must have gotten. A cursory sniff of Geralt’s satchel and the contents inside tell him two things. One, Geralt has been gone a while, all the way back to his home in Kaer Morhen and back. Two, he fought a vampire, and recently. Rage threatens to swallow him whole at the thought of another vampire not heeding his warning, but he tamps down on it. Geralt didn’t know any better, of course. His hands come up to brush over his throat- tracing where he knows there must be a scar. It’ll fade with time, but he can still feel the blade biting into his skin. It hadn’t been ideal, to let them cut his head off, and the way that Geralt had said his name breaks his heart just to think about, but his veil of humanity is all he has. It’s a fragile, easily ripped thing, and so sometimes one must die to preserve it. 

He thought Geralt would understand that, and he hadn’t seemed angry when Jaskier had first woken up. Granted, Jaskier had hardly known his own name, let alone who was in front of him when he’d woken up. All he knew was that his veins were filled with agony, and blood would make it go away. And gods, Geralt’s blood had. The taste alone made his nerves flare and overload with pleasure, but the feeling of drinking again, of having his teeth sunk deep… It was shameful, really. He’d taken advantage of Geralt’s trust, and almost lost him in the process. He’d always thought that he would lose Geralt some day, to a creature or old age or angry humans, but not  _ himself _ . He’d been scared the first time Geralt has asked him to drink, but it had been something different- something special then. This was… This was beastly. 

Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh, going to sit on the edge of the bed next to Geralt and play with his hair. He’s had far more than enough sleep, but all there is for him to do is wait. Wait for Geralt to wake up so he can explain, can apologize.

-*-

The sun is very, very bright behind Geralt’s eyes when he rouses, and he groans. He tries to turn his head away from the sun but the bite mark on his neck pulls uncomfortably and Geralt stops. His eyes fly open at the same time he sits up, and he’s pleasantly surprised to note he isn't as weak as he suspected, blinking as his eyes adjust. Oh. The sun was definitely down when he got home. He’s been out for a few hours, judging by the brightness, and Geralt feels weak and shaky all over. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and he turns to see Jaskier standing over by the window, blue eyes wide and impossibly bright. Geralt throws the blanket from his lap, intent to get up, but Jaskier’s slamming into him, arms around his neck before he can move. He hears Jaskier sob as they tip backwards, Geralt wrapping his arms around Jaskier and squeezing until he squeaks. Even then he doesn’t let up, but Jaskier doesn’t care, nuzzling his hair as Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathes deep. 

Somehow he still smells of lavender, but Geralt notices that his hair is damp and he laughs softly. Of course he bathed while Geralt was asleep. He must have smelled like someone who was asleep for two years. It’s been almost two years since he last held Jaskier, and the thought has his head spinning. Or it’s the blood loss. Jaskier’s voice trickles into his consciousness, and he listens eagerly to the lovely, melodic cadence of his words.

“-believe you. You’re so  _ stupid _ . I could have  _ killed  _ you, you fool, you big, beautiful  _ fool _ .”

“Not a very nice thing to say to the person who carried your head back home.” Jaskier laughs wetly, presses kisses into Geralt’s hair before pulling back. Tears flow freely down his cheeks and Geralt reaches up automatically to wipe them away. Jaskier leans into the touch, closing his eyes and sniffling.

“I- I’m  _ sorry _ .” Geralt frowns, confused, and he shifts so that he can sit up, leaning back against the headboard. Jaskier goes with him, helping situate him before crawling into his lap, snuggling into his arms. 

“Why are you sorry?”

“I was so  _ stupid. _ I should have fought out of their grip, should have torn them to shreds, but I- I’ve always been a  _ coward  _ and I left you alone.” 

“Did you hear what I said while you slept?” Jaskier wracks his brain, and slowly it comes back to him. He nods his head, afraid that any moment Geralt will burst into fiery anger. 

“You were scared.”

“Terrified. More than I’ve ever been. But,” Geralt pauses, Jaskier sitting back to look at him. “I trusted you. I saw  _ your _ fear, knew that you would come back to me. No matter the years it took.”

“How long?”

“Almost two years. Turns out, hunting is harder when you don’t have someone tending your wounds.” Jaskier lets out a startled laugh at that, and Geralt smiles softly, all for him. Geralt sobers a bit, and he reaches up, hand curling gingerly around Jaskier’s throat. Geralt feels Jaskier’s pulse fluttering under his hand, the way his breath catches as his eyes go wide. Geralt doesn’t hold him long, just long enough to feel Jaskier alive under his hands, but Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed when his hand drops to settle on Jaskier’s waist. “I thought- that something would happen while you were sleeping.”

The horror on Jaskier’s face is earth shattering, and tears come back to his eyes, spilling over anew. Geralt grunts when Jaskier surges forward, kissing him desperately. Jaskier’s hands bury in his hair, tugging him close, and Geralt drowns himself in the kiss. It’s been so, so long since he last kissed him, last did  _ anything _ , and he hands roam with a mind of their own, petting and pressing into the spots he knows will make Jaskier sing. And he does, whining and moaning against Geralt’s lips and shaking in his arms. He laps into Jaskier’s mouth, tasting the noises he lets out and flicking his tongue in such a way that has Jaskier’s fingers tightening in his hair. Geralt shifts a bit, lifting him and settling Jaskier differently in his lap. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice or care until he presses a thigh up between Jaskier’s legs, smirking when Jaskier whimpers, hips canting down. 

“Geralt- you’ve lost so much blood-” Jaskier’s voice cracks and Geralt hums, smoothing his thumbs over Jaskier’s ribs just to feel the softness of his chemise. Jaskier twitches in his lap, huffing out a hot breath.

“Missed you. Lemme take care of you?” Geralt presses warm, openmouthed kisses along Jaskier’s neck, chest rumbling at the quiet, stuttery gasps that come from Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier tilts his head back, allowing Geralt more room, and Geralt sucks faint marks into the column of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s hips rock down of their own accord, and he groans when Geralt holds his hips still. “Oil?”

“You’ll kill me.” Jaskier breathes, kissing Geralt hard before bounding off the bed. He yanks open the drawer of the nightstand, frowning. He pulls out a vial of lavender oil, but nothing else, and his eyes flick up toward Geralt. He watches as Geralt pulls his shirt up and off, tossing it onto the chair. Geralt looks over, and this time it's his breath that hitches, hand reaching out to beckon Jaskier forward. Jaskier jerks forward, a puppet on a string, and Geralt takes the oil from him, giving him a look. He sniffs lightly, but the smell doesn’t seem to bother him much, and he motions for Jaskier to come back. Jaskier shucks out of his pants on the way, movements near frantic, and it feels like their first time together all over again. Jaskier isn’t sure where to look or where to put his hands, but Geralt draws him back onto his thigh. Jaskier will take any friction that he can get, grinding messily against Geralt’s thigh and moaning when Geralt’s teeth find purchase on his neck. 

Geralt nips and sucks slowly, leaving small marks that bloom darker and darker the longer he works at them. The scent of lavender makes the heat in his stomach coil a bit tighter, and Geralt pops the cork to coat a few fingers. He listens eagerly for the noise that Jaskier makes when he rubs at his rim with oil-slick fingers, touch light and teasing. He’s rewarded beautifully- Jaskier’s hands come up to grip at his shoulders, digging in, lips parting as he keens in Geralt’s ear. Jaskier tips forward, hips shifting backward to allow him a better angle as he presses his face into Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt doesn’t tease- he wants to hear the way that Jaskier sings for him after so, so long away. The first finger slides in with a little resistance, but Jaskier grinds down and relaxes, shivering. Geralt works his finger slowly, waiting until Jaskier huffs and noses his temple to slip another one in. Jaskier’s hips rock between grinding forward onto Geralt’s thigh and back on his fingers, and Geralt is breathless at the sight. Jaskier opens up beautifully on his fingers, warm and pliant, and Geralt digs his teeth in a bit harder to make a better mark. Jaskier cries out at the feeling, tightening around his fingers and babbling sweet, nonsense words. Geralt’s heart races in his chest at finally having Jaskier back in his arms, sweet and needy and  _ alive _ . He prods at Jaskier’s hole with a third finger and Jaskier growls, bearing down on Geralt’s hand until he thrusts his fingers inside. It’s rougher than he means it to be but Jaskier’s nails scratch at his shoulders and a whimper falls from his lips.

“I dreamt of this.” Geralt’s voice is scratchy in his throat, but Jaskier perks up at the sound, moaning quietly when Geralt draws his fingers back and then presses them deep, crooking. Jaskier jerks in his lap when he finally brushes over his prostate, and Geralt keeps his attention firmly there, basking in the way precome beads at the tip of Jaskier's cock. “Finally being able to touch you again.”

“Tell me. Please?” Geralt can’t say no to the way that Jaskier’s voice borders on begging, and he trails kisses up until he’s close to Jaskier’s ear.

“Dreamt of opening you up like this, watching the way your thighs trembled around my hips. Wanted to taste you, to wake up and lick until you squirmed.”

“F-fuck- fuck Geralt, you can- can do whatever you want-” 

“I know. I have time.” That sends a thrill down Jaskier’s spine, and his hands come down to fumble at the ties of Geralt’s pants. Geralt laughs low in his throat, rubbing up against Jaskier’s prostate and smiling when Jaskier’s fingers clench into fists. Jaskier’s forehead thunks lightly against his collarbone, breath hot over Geralt’s skin, and Geralt thrusts his fingers slowly. “You aren’t done, Jaskier.”

“Please, I can’t  _ think _ -” Geralt’s touch goes featherlight then, just the barest shifting of his fingers, and Jaskier sobs in relief and frustration. He finally gets the ties of Geralt’s pants open, not bothering with finesse as he pulls Geralt’s cock from the flap in the front. The air punches from Geralt’s lungs at the first touch, and Jaskier shifts his hips forward, grinding them together. Geralt’s other hand comes up suddenly, stopping Jaskier’s hips, and he growls softly in frustration. “Geralt-”

“You have to choose whether you want to rut in my lap or if you want to sit.” 

“ _ Fuck _ .” Geralt laughs quietly, nosing at Jaskier’s neck as his fingers thrust into Jaskier, beginning that slow, aching rhythm he had before.

“That's your answer?”

“If you don’t get in me right now-” Geralt growls at Jaskier’s tone, other hand coming up to tilt Jaskier’s head as he kisses him hard. Jaskier whines against his lips, sorry, and Geralt’s kiss softens, hand petting down Jaskier’s side before disappearing. Lavender drifts between them, stronger now, and Jaskier lifts himself up when Geralt pulls his fingers out and brings him forward. He wants to say something else, to demand that Geralt hurry up, but the head of Geralt’s cock nudges at his hole and those thoughts are quickly chased away. Jaskier bears his hips down, moaning when Geralt begins to slide in. He’s impatient, needy, but Geralt kisses him slowly, grip iron on Jaskier’s hips as he lowers him in slow, heady increments. Jaskier feels every inch, head swimming at the weight of Geralt inside him, and his vision whites out when Geralt seats himself deep and grinds up. 

Geralt’s arms go around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him from moving as his cock throbs at the tight, wet heat enveloping him. “You’re so tight,  _ fuck _ .” 

Geralt’s voice brushes against him like the finest of silks, and Jaskier is suddenly terrifyingly, blindingly close. Geralt’s hips shift, pulling back a bit and pressing back up. It keeps Jaskier full, fuller than he’s ever been, and he pants raggedly, head tipping back. Geralt kisses down Jaskier’s chest, crooning softly when Jaskier tightens around him, shuddering in his lap. “M’close-”

A calloused hand wraps around him then, collecting a bead of precome from the head of his cock and stroking Jaskier in time with his thrusts. Jaskier arches up into the touch, crying Geralt’s name, and he only lasts two more strokes before Geralt’s cock bumps against his prostate and stars burst behind his eyes. He spills onto Geralt’s belly, keening when Geralt’s hips stutter at the way Jaskier tightens around him. Geralt goes still once Jaskier begins to shudder and shake with overstimulation, letting Jaskier sag in his lap as he places warm kisses up Jaskier’s chest and over his shoulder. “So good, Jask. So, so good.”

Jaskier tucks his face into Geralt’s neck, purring low in his chest. It feels good, Geralt’s hands wandering over him, and he’s a hard, heady weight inside him. He’s patient, not moving an inch, and Jaskier loves him even more for it. Jaskier’s hips lift, drawing almost all the way off before he drops back down. It’s Geralt’s turn to shudder now, to grasp at Jaskier’s hips and whisper his name. He tries to tell Jaskier he doesn’t have to, that this was all he wanted, but Jaskier sets a steady, firm rhythm and Geralt loses himself in it. Pleasure jitters through him in electrifying bursts, and the scent of lavender makes his skin burn with need. His hips rise to meet Jaskier the next time he drops down and Jaskier moans above him, bouncing a bit faster now in his lap. Geralt moves to meet him with each thrust, grinding deep and watching the way that Jaskier’s hands flutter against his shoulders, as if unsure what to do with them. Jaskier presses their foreheads together, waiting until Geralt’s eyes open to speak. “I love you, Geralt. I love you.”

“Love you too-” 

“Come for me, sweetheart. Wanna feel you.” Geralt’s eyelids flutter, go half lidded as he gasps and grinds up. He doesn’t dare look away from Jaskier, and he whines, a small pitiful noise as Jaskier drops hard into his lap, tightening and grinning when Geralt’s hands hold him still as his hips stutter, fucking up into him in small, jerky movements. Jaskier kisses him as he begins to come, licking into Geralt’s mouth and tasting each whimper and whine and moan he lets out. Jaskier lifts his hips and drops in small, minute movements, continuing until Geralt’s grabbing at his ass and pressing him down firmly to stop him. This time when they kiss it’s soft, unhurried, Geralt’s hands skimming up and down Jaskier’s thighs just to feel him near. “I’d say that’s a fine welcome back.”

Geralt snorts then, trying to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I couldn’t get anyone to march in the parade.”

“Mmm, you’ll have to try harder.” Geralt laughs, rolling his eyes, and Jaskier grins, sighing softly and lifting his hips up. He moves as quick as he can, trying to preserve Geralt’s pants, but Geralt had pressed so deep that he’s okay for the moment. Geralt’s eyes are dark when Jaskier comes back with a washcloth to wipe Geralt’s stomach clean. Jaskier raises a brow, tilting his head, and Geralt grumbles. “Don’t grumble at me. Get out of those pants.”

Geralt, just to prove a point, grumbles again, but shoves his pants off his hips and down, tossing them with his shirt. Jaskier comes back after cleaning himself up a bit and ridding himself of his shirt, and he shoves Geralt over until he can crawl into bed, snuggling up against his side. Geralt settles on his back, an arm tight around Jaskier. “Did you dream?”

“Hmm? Ah, not really. Not until near the end. It takes a while for everything to… reconnect. I remember Regis reading to me for the past… Month?” Jaskier’s fingers trace over Geralt’s scars, skimming over the old ones and pausing whenever he finds one he doesn’t recognize. His fingers brush the edge of the one on his side and Geralt pulls in a sharp breath, wincing when Jaskier’s head pops up. “You’re injured?”

“No, no not anymore. It’s just new.” Jaskier frowns at him, leaning to try and take a peek. Geralt can tell the instant that Jaskier sees whatever Regis saw before, and Jaskier vaults over him, lifting his arm and peering closer. Geralt grunts at the manhandling, shifting as Jaskier prods at him to get him to roll. Jaskier’s fingers trace gingerly over the ragged edges of the scar, and Geralt releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“I’ll kill her. I’ll  _ kill _ her.” Geralt has never heard Jaskier so angry, voice trembling with barely held back power. Geralt rolls and grabs Jaskier’s arm before he can slip out of bed, fingers tight around Jaskier's bicep. Jaskier snarls, fighting his grip, but Geralt pulls him back, reaching up to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. He draws him down into a kiss, Jaskier cold and unwilling and mouth filled with rather large teeth. Geralt kisses the corners of his mouth, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s lightly until he relaxes, drooping forward. “You’re  _ mine _ .” 

Jaskier’s voice is thick, possessive, and Geralt hums against his lips. Jaskier presses himself down bodily, lapping into Geralt’s mouth and growling. The thought of having been claimed so thoroughly by anyone, but especially a very seductive, very powerful higher vampire shouldn’t please him as much as it does. “Always. As  _ you’re _ mine. She was the only one who attacked. The others begged, Jaskier. They begged that I be the one to kill them. Not you.”

“Good.  _ Good. _ ” Geralt can feel the way that Jaskier shakes against him, and he doesn’t often get to see this side of Jaskier- the side that shows just how inhuman he can be. Geralt loves him all the same, no matter how Jaskier snarls or rages or flashes his fangs. Jaskier spent years doing the same for him. It takes a few more minutes of kissing to coax Jaskier to lay back down, and he does so on the side with the scar, as if to protect it. Geralt can feel fatigue tugging at him, and he's half asleep when Jaskier snuggles a bit closer and says, "Stay with me."

"Mmm, not leaving. Got all winter." 

"No I mean- stay. Don't go back on the Path come spring." Geralt still thinks he isn't hearing right.

"Witchers don't retire."

"Vesemir did."

"He takes care of the keep."

"And you have your vineyard. You don't… have to. I just-" Jaskier shakes his head then, tucking his face into Geralt's chest. "Forget it."

Geralt can tell that the past two years with them apart weighs heavily, and it drags at him too. It was awful, being alone again, traveling through towns where no one cared past what he could do for them. Geralt sighs then, turning his head to place a kiss on the top of Jaskier's head.

"What would I do?"

"Mm, not sure. Sword instructor?" Geralt snorts and he can feel Jaskier smile, just a small tentative thing at first that grows when he suggests more. "Baker? Laundress? Professional wine taster?"

"Wine taster?"

"You've the nose for it. What are you good at, besides fighting?"

"Plants." Jaskier hums as if Geralt has just gotten his answer, and Geralt is still thinking about it when he falls asleep.

-*-

Geralt thinks he's dreaming when he wakes up in the morning. Jaskier is a solid weight next to him, snoring softly, and when Geralt shifts Jaskier mumbles tiredly and hugs him a bit tighter.

"Stay."

"The sun is up." It's barely begun its ascent over the horizon, but Jaskier hasn't opened his eyes yet to see that. Jaskier cracks an eye open purely to glare, and Geralt sighs. "A few more minutes, then."

The purr that rumbles from Jaskier is strong enough to make his medallion slide up his chest, and Geralt chuckles quietly. Jaskier's purr doesn't let up at all, instead getting worse when Geralt turns onto his side and bundles the bard against his chest. There's no way he's going to fall asleep again, but he contents himself with the smell of lavender in Jaskier's hair and enjoys watching the sun rise. If he's being honest with himself, which he seems to be doing more and more lately, he didn't  _ want  _ to get up. He's so used to early mornings on the Path that to lay here feels… odd. He certainly doesn't mind holding Jaskier, listening to the little noises he makes in his sleep and smelling his hair. If he  _ were _ to retire, and he's still unconvinced he should, he would get more mornings like this- almost every morning could be soft and slow and lazy. That thought alone is almost enough to convince him.

Geralt is staring a hole into the wall behind Jaskier’s head when Jaskier begins to rouse, squeaking quietly and stretching in Geralt’s arms. Jaskier’s hands roam, petting over Geralt’s side and chest, orienting himself again. Geralt gives a soft hum in his throat, letting Jaskier know he’s paying attention, but Jaskier isn’t inclined to say anything just yet, instead kissing wherever he can reach. It’s nice, being able to just lay here, but Geralt’s been itching to get up for the last twenty minutes and his arms tighten around Jaskier minutely. Jaskier perks up, lifting his head and laughing quietly. He places a gentle kiss on Geralt’s jaw, smiling when Geralt’s chest vibrates with a purr. 

“You’re very patient.”

The witcher’s purr only grows louder and Jaskier sits up, throwing the blankets off of them. Geralt scowls as if offended, but Jaskier leans down to nip at this thigh and Geralt gasps. “Stop it.”

“Or what?”

“Do not make me kick you out of bed.” His voice is grave, but Jaskier does it again, yelling when calloused hands grab at him and haul him up. Geralt’s grip is strong as he manhandles Jaskier, ignoring the way that he squirms and tries to twist out of his grasp. He dumps Jaskier off the side of the bed in rather dramatic fashion, and Jaskier gasps in outrage. 

“Hey! You  _ ass-” _

“I warned you.” Geralt hears the growl that sticks in Jaskier’s throat the instant before he lunges, tackling Geralt back into the bed. His instincts are honed too finely for it to surprise him though, and he rolls with the movement easily, laughing. He’s  _ laughing _ , bright and happy, and it distracts Jaskier enough that Geralt gets his arms behind his back, pinning his shoulders down into the bed. Jaskier struggles against it, straining upwards, and Geralt drapes his whole weight down onto Jaskier’s back. 

“No fair-”

“I don’t fight fair.” Geralt’s voice is low and rough in his throat, and Jaskier can’t stifle the shiver that goes down his spine at the sound. Geralt noses at the back of Jaskier’s neck, shifting so one hand can hold Jaskier’s wrists while the other braces himself on the bed. “Haven’t watched me enough?”

“I could use a refresher.” Geralt laughs above him, deep and quiet, and Jaskier shudders in his arms. He pushes his hips back, wondering if Geralt will notice, and smirks when Geralt’s breath catches. Geralt’s hand rises from the bed, fingertips grazing over the sensitive skin of Jaskier’s inner thigh. He presses his hips back further, delighted when Geralt huffs against his neck and presses forward. His voice is smug, insufferably so when he turns to glance back at Geralt and wink. “I thought you wanted to get out of bed?”

“I wanted to wake up. I’m awake.” 

“Very much so.” Jaskier agrees, giggling when Geralt growls against his neck and flips him over. “I believe there were a few things you wanted to do when you woke up?”

"Mm." Geralt sits back, scooting down a bit so he isn't quite so hunched as he kisses slowly down Jaskier's chest, pausing to lick and suck at one of Jaskier's nipples until it's hard and pink in his mouth. Jaskier preens under the attention, breath going shallow when Geralt dips ever lower, kissing at Jaskier's hip bone and spending some time biting at them. Each caress of Geralt's teeth against his skin makes Jaskier's hips twitch, and Geralt digs his teeth in to leave a proper mark, so close to the sensitive inner crease of Jaskier's thigh that he can hear Jaskier's heart jackrabbit in his chest. 

"You're teasing me." Jaskier accuses, voice rough with lust and fingers twitching in the bedsheets. "Punishing me for being so cheeky so early in the morning and-  _ oh,  _ sweet melitele's  _ tits _ Geralt-"

Said man huffs a small laugh, lapping at the soft head of Jaskier's cock and flicking his tongue just so. It's always a surprise, what Jaskier will say when Geralt wraps his lips around him, sucking weakly and letting his eyes close to truly appreciate the way Jaskier's cock twitches on his tongue. He's a man of too many words, but he's speechless now, letting out an appreciative groan when Geralt bobs his head and hollows his cheeks, the taste of Jaskier heavy in his mouth in the best of ways. Fingers card through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp, and Geralt swallows Jaskier down just to purr with Jaskier firmly in his throat. 

" _ Fuck!  _ Fuck- you're too perfect, so talented with that damn mouth of yours‐" Geralt purrs again, the noise rough with the way Jaskier just sits in his throat, but Jaskier shudders underneath him and Geralt can feel his own erection, hard and aching in response. Jaskier groans when Geralt slips off of his cock, lips shiny with spit, and there's a flush of color high on his cheeks. "Geralt?"

"C'mere." Jaskier goes willingly, moved by Geralt's hands as Geralt lays himself down on his back and guides Jaskier to straddle his chest. His thighs are spread impossibly wide by the bulk of him, and Jaskier can feel the way his muscles will protest later, but the sight of Geralt under him, lips pink and shiny make it all worth it.

"Oh, oh my perfect, wonderful witcher. Do you want me to fuck your mouth?  _ Please _ say yes, because you're very pretty and I'm  _ very _ hard and- O-oh, oh  _ darling _ ." Jaskier croons, voice husky as Geralt takes him in again and sucks just to get him to shut up. One of Jaskier's hands grips the headboard tight, the other reaching down to bury in Geralt's hair and tug. Geralt rewards the feeling by hollowing his cheeks, and Jaskier's hips roll forward languidly, rutting against Geralt's tongue and further into his mouth. Geralt groans happily, tilting his head just a bit as Jaskier's fingers tighten in his hair and hold him still. Geralt sinks into the heady feeling of Jaskier fucking his mouth, adoring the slow drag as he pulls back and the easy slide as he thrusts forward into Geralt's throat. His hands come up to cup Jaskier's thighs, not to stop him but merely to hold on as Jaskier uses his mouth as he sees fit. It's a release for him as much as it is Jaskier, and he loses track of how long Jaskier teases himself, pulling back whenever he gets too close, moaning and whining when Geralt laps at his slit to taste the precome leaking from him. His jaw aches something fierce at being held open for so long, but Jaskier is hot and unbearably hard in his mouth and his cheeks are flushed a deep, dark red. "Touch yourself."

The demand is breathless and harsh and Geralt is all too eager to please. His hips buck at the first touch of his own hand, callouses creating the perfect friction as he strokes himself in time with Jaskier's movements. He's so much closer than he thought, brain hazy from the pleasure fizzling through him and making his toes curl, and he whimpers when Jaskier stops just shy of pressing into his throat. He makes another sound, his own hand stilling, and he looks up to see Jaskier's iris' glowing in the low light of the room. Geralt's hand tightens around his cock, drawing a whine from him, and that noise seems to loosen Jaskier's restraint. 

Geralt is pleasantly surprised and very, very aroused when Jaskier's hips surge forward, rapidly filling his mouth and his throat as he gives up all pretense of teasing himself. His breath comes fast and choppy between Jaskier's thrusts, his hand speeding up and wrist twisting at the head to draw out the hot, tight feeling in his stomach. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap, and he purrs raggedly around Jaskier, nearly choking when Jaskier's hips stutter, cock hitting the back of his throat harsher than he means to. Jaskier murmurs soft apologies mixed in with his pleas for release, and Geralt purrs as loud as he possibly can as Jaskier sinks deep and grinds against his face, coming hard and fast down his throat. 

Heat scorches through him when he feels Jaskier's come splash into his throat, and he moans when Jaskier pulls back, cock twitching as another small bit spurts out on Geralt's waiting tongue. Jaskier is nearly dislodged as Geralt's spine bows up, and he's coming too, fire raging through his veins as his nerves are set alight, the coil in his belly snapping as he comes messily over his stomach, sucking and licking at the head of Jaskier's cock just to have something to focus on. His hips jerk, rutting up into his own palm as Jaskier shifts back, overstimulated and breathing hard. Jaskier swings his thigh over Geralt, and he fits himself against Geralt's side, taking him in hand and helping him through his orgasm. Geralt whines, hips shifting back when it becomes too much, but Jaskier' touch is firm and slow and Geralt's nerves are singing with pleasure that's quickly turning to pain. 

"Jask, please-"

"Just a bit more, love, let me see. You're gorgeous this way, lips red, blissed out just from sucking my cock." Geralt moans then, hips rocking up into Jaskier's hand, desperately seeking friction as Jaskier works him so skillfully. He doesn't soften, doesn't get the chance to, and Jaskier quickly brings him to and subsequently shoves him off the cliff of another orgasm, Geralt's hips jerking weakly as more come splashes onto his stomach. This time when Geralt shifts his hips away Jaskier lets him sink back into the bed, boneless and fucked out in a completely different way. "This what you dreamt of too?"

"Better than dreams." His voice cracks painfully in his throat, wispy and light, and Jaskier nuzzles his cheek.

-*-

It’s nice to have Jaskier back. Not just for the intimate moments he’d missed, but for the way he listened to B.B. talk about the history of a nearby vineyard, or the way he sang with the workers who lingered in the courtyard to watch him. Geralt finds himself humming along as well, albeit much quieter, and his fingers are coated in dirt as he digs up a mandrake root. The sun soaks through the black cotton of his shirt, and he can feel sweat sticking his hair to the back of his neck, but he doesn’t mind. The sun is good for his hip and the dirt under his nails is a refreshing change of pace from the usual blood and viscera he has to deal with. Geralt takes a deep breath as he pulls the root from the ground, snapping off a small piece just to savor the stronger smell. It oddly enough, smells like an apple- sweet and refreshing yet followed by an earthy tang. 

Jaskier perks up suddenly from his perch on the wall, and he hops down, slinging his lute around his back and padding over. Geralt looks up when Jaskier dips into an elegant crouch, making sure not to get dirt on his silk. “What’s that?”

“Mandrake root.” Geralt holds the piece out, and the scent has faded a bit but Jaskier closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. Jaskier’s heightened senses are new to Geralt, but he preens when Jaskier takes the piece from him and breathes in deeper, pressing it to his nose. He makes a soft sound, smiling. 

“It reminds me of a perfume I once sampled. It smelled like this, but sweeter. Mmm, hints of jasmine, maybe?”

Geralt’s mind spins with the possibilities, and he hums quietly, going back to digging in the dirt. Jaskier lingers next to him, sniffing his piece of mandrake root before disappearing. Geralt doesn’t mind being left alone, but Jaskier comes back with a basket, setting it next to Geralt and winking at him. Geralt dumps the roots he already has in the bottom and stands, leaving the rest of the mandrake root alone and moving on to the flowers. There’s many of them- celandine, moleyarrow, ginatia, honeysuckle. All incredibly useful, and all intoxicating in their own scents. Geralt sniffs each of them thoroughly, humming. Ginatia smells the closest, an almost perfect match, and Geralt plucks as many of the open flowers as he can. He leaves his other plants alone for now, and goes to gently wash each flower and mandrake root. 

Jaskier follows him around, curious, but Geralt waves him away when he heads into the cellar and Jaskier rolls his eyes before heading off to do who knows what. His lab is quiet and cramped, and there’s no way he would be able to work with Jaskier in the room. Besides, if he lets Jaskier in, then it’ll ruin the surprise and Geralt isn’t sure that he can do it anyhow. He spends time plucking petals and cutting up mandrake root, dropping each prospective plant into its own receptacle. A hunt through the wine cellar a level below him rewards him with a bottle of good, strong vodka. Geralt covers the petals and mandrake root in the alcohol and lights a small flame underneath, nodding to himself. 

He pops up from the cellar briefly, snagging B.B’s attention and pressing a small list into his hands. B.B is all too eager to head into the city for the items he desires, and Geralt dips back into the cellar to keep the concoctions from burning or flaring too high. They bubble softly, and Geralt works on making others while he’s at it- celandine is too strong for him, too sharp, but it’s a great colorant and Geralt’s fingers are quickly stained yellow-orange as he grinds the plants into a paste. The paste is added to a small batch of oil, and Geralt watches the way the color bleeds from the mashed up flower. The honeysuckle is treated much the same as the mandrake root, left to steep in the vodka atop a gentle flame. Its scent is sweet and musky, carrying with it a lighter, floral scent at the end. Geralt likes it immensely. 

He’s so engrossed in his work, in making sure nothing burns that he doesn’t register the footsteps on the stairs until they’re very close. Geralt pokes his head out of the door to see who it is and finds B.B, arms full of items, and he takes them with a grateful smile. He stashes them under the alchemy table tucked against the wall, and something akin to giddiness makes his heart leap up into his throat. The mood seems infectious, because B.B. is smiling the whole time that Geralt takes the supplies from him. 

“What are you making, if I might ask?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He knows exactly what he’s making, but if he tells B.B then Jaskier will  _ definitely _ know. Geralt waits until the smell of vodka has dissipated to turn the heat off, leaving them to cool and steep further. The sun has dipped low in the sky when he finally makes his way from the cellar, and he blinks in confusion. He was down there that long? He dips into the house, scrubbing the dirt and flowers from his hands before going to pen a letter. Jaskier finds him hunched over the paper, a crease between his brows and ink on his fingertips. 

“Writing me a love letter?” Geralt’s eyes flick up, brow relaxing as his lip quirks in a small smile. 

“No. Yennefer.”

“ _ Yennefer _ gets a love letter, but not me?”

“You get a kiss.” Jaskier harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt reaches out for him then, and despite the stubborn set to his jaw Jaskier moves to rest his weight against Geralt’s side. Geralt hmms, tugging until Jaskier is sitting in his lap, trapped between the table and Geralt’s chest. Geralt, true to his word, kisses a trail over Jaskier’s neck, mouthing words into his skin. Jaskier keeps his arms crossed, sitting stiffly in Geralt’s lap, but Geralt is nothing if not patient. He brushes his lips over the soft column of Jaskier’s neck, purring and letting the vibrations travel through the two of them. He can feel Jaskier’s shoulders droop a little, and he turns Jaskier just enough to get at his jaw. He spends more time here, sucking a mark into the sensitive spot at the corner of his jaw and trailing his way up. He lets one of his fangs, usually so carefully hidden, brush against Jaskier’s jaw and he hears Jaskier gasp.

Finally, finally Jaskier relents, turning and catching Geralt in a slow, smouldering kiss. Something warm pools in his belly when Jaskier’s tongue slips into his mouth, slipping over his fangs. Geralt isn’t in any rush to do anything, content to hold Jaskier close and kiss him just for the hell of it. Jaskier seems to feel the same way, turning in his lap and draping his arms over Geralt’s shoulders. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of having Jaskier here, in his arms, and when they pull away to breathe Geralt doesn’t let him get far. He leans his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing in their mingling scents as a small, private smile tugs at his lips. 

“How did I not see those pretty teeth of yours?”

“Don’t smile much.” It’s a sad statement, but Jaskier scoffs, pulling back to get a better look at him. 

“You smile plenty, just not with teeth. I remember…” Jaskier’s brow furrows then, and he shakes his head. “A flash of teeth that night.”

“I can’t help it.” Geralt admits this like it’s something to be ashamed of- the way he’d snarled and bared his teeth, more like an animal than a man. 

“Show me.” Geralt blinks at the command, dumbfounded.

“What?” 

“You’ve seen mine,  _ felt _ mine. I- want to know this part of you too.” Jaskier glances away, cheeks warm, and a rush of affection sweeps through Geralt, washing away any shame that still lingers. Time and time again Jaskier rises to meet expectations he didn’t know he had, reaches out with steady hands and holds every broken, bitter part of him. 

“Okay.” Jaskier’s attention snaps back to him, and Geralt grins wide. He can tell he’s still hiding them, even now, and he tries again, grinning so wide his cheeks feel like they’ll tear. He opens his mouth, lessening the strain somewhat, and Jaskier’s heart thunders in his ears, a rapid fire beat. Jaskier’s hand comes up, and it should be weird, the way that Jaskier brushes a thumb down his fang, testing the sharp tip. His teeth aren’t meant for slicing, not like Jaskier’s, but blood rises as Jaskier presses the pad of his thumb hard against Geralt’s fang. The brief sting brings Jaskier back to himself, and he pulls away, drawing in a sharp breath, as if ashamed of what he’s done. Geralt catches his wrist, tongue flicking out to lap up the drop of blood clinging to Jaskier’s skin. 

“Don’t-” Jaskier warns, lower lip wobbling, but Geralt only tips his head, licking at the pad of Jaskier’s thumb again and then glancing down. The cut has sealed already, just the barest mark present, but Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide, eyes dark and needy. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

Geralt grins then, flashing his teeth in a move closer to a threat, and he feels Jaskier shudder in his lap. “I can make a few guesses.” 

“You’ll be the death of me.” Jaskier grouses, huffing when Geralt presses his lips together and tries not to smile. 

“Not in this lifetime.” That draws a laugh from Jaskier, and he tips forward to kiss Geralt before he leans back. 

“Shall I help you with your love letter then? Surely Yennefer needs more than a simple ‘i miss you’ to truly swoon.” 

“Hmm. She asked for your blood.”

“Ah, I do recall having agreed to help her with something. Truly a shame.”

“Gave her some of mine.” Jaskier splutters suddenly, eyes wide, and Geralt raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. 

“Pardon me? You, a witcher, gave a sorceress some of your  _ blood? _ ”

“You don’t have to be jealous.” Jaskier pins him with a withering look, getting up to pace the length of the room. Geralt turns in his chair, abandoning the letter to watch Jaskier walk, muscles coiled and tensed. “She said it might work.”

“Oh it’ll work. As my- witcher, your blood takes on special properties.”

“Like?” Geralt finds himself itching to know more, about how their dynamic works, and how Jaskier has affected him. 

“Well, you carry my signature now. That, though, is thanks to these.” Jaskier steps up to him, blindingly fast, and traces the bite marks marring the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt jerks at the touch, sparks shooting through his skin, and Jaskier’s eyes go half lidded. He shakes himself, taking a step back and smiling. "But other vampires will now recognize you, see you as… kin, almost. And your blood… Vampire blood has long been used in magic, both for the inherent chaos we possess and our otherness."

"And my blood mimics that?"

Jaskier shakes his head, pursing his lips. "Your blood  _ is _ that. Or as close as you'll ever get. You, my dear witcher, have the unique position of having been exposed to the mutagens which changed you, and my claim, which pushes those changes further."

"Hm." He hadn't thought that he would change in any type of way, and he doesn't  _ feel _ any different. 

"You won't." Geralt looks up, startled, to find Jaskier grinning sheepishly, like he's been caught red handed with his hand in too many pots. Geralt squints suspiciously, eying the vampire before him and thinking rather untoward thoughts at him. He sees Jaskier's mouth tug briefly down into a frown before his expression levels off, and Geralt's suspicions are all but confirmed.

"I don't like people reading my thoughts."

"I'm  _ not _ , I promise you that. The claim allows for- how do I put this… I can feel what you're feeling. In small amounts, of course. I wouldn't get wounded when you do, but I might feel a dull pain, or when you think rather rude thoughts, I sense the feeling behind what you aren't saying. Cruel witcher." Geralt isn't quite sure how to take that news, and part of him thinks that Jaskier is bluffing, but his face is open and vulnerable, as if revealing this is something that weighs heavily on him.

"How come I didn't notice?"

"It can be hard, if you aren't used to it, or used to expressing feelings." That is a jab at him, he doesn't need their bond to tell him that, and he rolls his eyes. Jaskier smiles briefly, before standing still and crossing his arms. "Focus on me, tell me what you feel."

Geralt sighs, frowning and looking at Jaskier. His face is calm, betraying nothing, but Geralt is so used to using scent that he flares his nostrils automatically, taking a breath. Jaskier gives him a sharp look, and he can tell without really trying that Jaskier is telling him  _ that's not what I meant. _ He presses his lips together, frowning, and breathes very light, ignoring Jaskier's scent in favor of listening to him. He isn't even sure what he's supposed to be doing, but Jaskier is a gentle, steady presence and Geralt feels a flare of affection the longer he looks. It's a lazy, steady kind of warmth in his bones, and Geralt blinks suddenly. Something spikes within him, eager and bright, and Geralt sits up very straight, staring harder.

Amusement flashes through him, and he can feel a laugh bubbling in his throat that  _ definitely _ isn't his. "Do it again. Something else."

Jaskier's lips quirk in a small smile, and this time Geralt is listening so closely that the sweeping melancholy that swallows him is a punch to the gut. His stomach drops away and his mouth opens, trying to find words. The feeling fades, drifting away, but Geralt is up on his feet and pulling Jaskier into his arms before it can fully leave him. He hears,  _ feels _ Jaskier make a soft noise that settles like a stone in his heart, and he hugs Jaskier tighter, breath shuddering when Jaskier clutches just as tightly at him. 

"Sorry-"

" _ Don't _ . Don't apologize. Tell me why?" 

"I pushed so much of this on you. I've- almost killed you, and you didn't ask for  _ any _ of it." Geralt guides Jaskier to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping him close as guilt and sadness and anger burn in his chest. 

"True enough." Jaskier's breath escapes him in a whimper, but Geralt holds him tighter and kisses the top of his head, just keeping himself as close as possible as he speaks. "There are some things that I  _ did _ ask for. Like the first time you drank, and every time after."

"Your heart was so slow." Jaskier whispers, hands shaking as he grips the back of Geralt's shirt. 

"Mhm. I could taste the Swallow you gave me when I woke up. Jaskier, you're  _ good _ , even when you're half crazed with pain. And as for being forced with anything else?"

"Being with me." Jaskier mumbles, as if pointing out the obvious wrong. 

"Being with you is the one thing that's gone right. Jask, if I- if I cared about what you were, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be so damn  _ proud _ of the scars from your teeth, or so-"

"Impossibly, madly in love?" Geralt laughs quietly, and the sadness still makes him ache, but his love is a raging inferno, and Geralt has enough of it to share. "You… You're sure about this? Us?"

"A bit late to take it back now." Geralt says, chuckling into Jaskier's hair. There, a small tinge of amusement. It's such a relief to feel that he sits back, looking at Jaskier and raising a hand to cup his cheek. Jaskier leans into the touch like a man starved, and Geralt's heart feels like it could burst from his chest at any moment. Maybe that's why he talks without thinking, blurting out something he'd never dreamed of saying. "Marry me."

Jaskier goes stock still, blue eyes wide as saucers, and there are still tears left unshed that don't stay that way for long. "Geralt-"

"It might not mean much, what with the mark and all, and it doesn't have to be now, but I just wanted a way to-" He's rambling terribly, can feel his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, but Jaskier almost bowls him over with the force of his kiss. Their teeth clack together painfully, threatening to split Geralt's lip, but Geralt crushes him close, purring madly as Jaskier lets up a bit, softening the kiss. Geralt feels Jaskier's love, molten and thick and stunningly bright, and he basks in it as Jaskier pulls back and presses their foreheads together. 

"Yes."

"Yes?" The hope rising through him makes all of his limbs feel like they’re floating, and Jaskier smiles.

" _ Yes _ I'll marry you, you beautiful bastard." Geralt kisses him then, though it’s ruined by the way Geralt keeps smiling, stupid and content and amazed. Jaskier doesn't seem to mind too much, and eventually he tucks his head under Geralt’s chin, resting in his arms. “So, husband, do I get to know what you were up to all day?”

“No.”

“This marriage is on the rocks already.” Jaskier laments, laughing when Geralt scoffs at him. “Is it a surprise?”

“... Maybe.” Jaskier’s grin is bright when he pulls back, and Geralt feels more like talking than he has in months. “I’m… Thinking about it.”

“About what, love?”

“Retiring. With you. But I…” Geralt doesn't know very well how to explain his fears, of leaving Lambert and Eskel to handle the Continent alone, of stopping and never starting again. Jaskier’s smile quiets, and there’s an understanding in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Jaskier can feel his hesitation, his fear, and he doesn't seem upset or angry in the least. “Who am I, without monsters?”

“I think,” Jaskier says gently, “That’s for you to find out.”

-*- 

Geralt tries not to hide himself away in the cellar if he can help it, but he finds himself making more and more samples of scents, playing with them and seeing what fits together. The letter he sent to Yennefer was short and simple, since Jaskier had sat down to write his own letter that night and refused to let Geralt see. The package that arrived later was more precious than Geralt could have guessed, and Jaskier only laughs when Geralt slips away to his lab to work. 

“Master Geralt? There’s someone asking for you.” B.B’s voice drifts down the stairs and he perks up, placing the cap back in the small vial and tucking it into his pocket. It isn’t as strong as he knows Jaskier is used to, but if Jaskier likes it how it is now, he doesn’t want to let it get any stronger. 

“If it’s Jaskier, tell him I’ll be up soon.”

“It’s a woman.” That peaks Geralt’s interest, and he ducks out, heading up the stairs to where B.B is waiting. He constricts his pupils to adjust for the light, and he stops short at the top of the steps when he catches sight of ash-blonde hair and twin swords strapped to a tall, thin woman. 

She turns to him at the sound of his footsteps, green eyes curious, and Geralt blinks once, twice, dumbfounded. “Ciri?”

“Geralt!” His arms open for her, gathering her in a hug as she laughs. He takes a deep breath, the scent of dirt and pine and blade oil drifting to him. He’s so stunned that he holds her for longer than he ever has before, squeezing her tight and sighing when her fingers press into his back to hug him tighter. She pulls back, grinning and reaching up to tug at a lock of Geralt’s hair. It falls over his shoulders, down to mid shoulderblade, and Geralt hadn’t really noticed its length before. “It’s getting long.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit.” Geralt keeps an arm around her shoulder as they head away from the cellar toward the garden. The sun seems to agree with her as much as it does him, and whenever he glances over her face is turned upward, enjoying the warmth. She has furs on, and he can imagine she’s sweating, but after the cold of the north he isn’t surprised she wanted to come here. “I heard you’re retiring.”

“We’ll see.” He’s suspicious immediately, narrowing his eyes at her, but Ciri only raises her brows and acts innocent. 

“What have you been doing in your lab? You reek of flowers.”

“Did Jaskier send you to spy?” Ciri pauses, eyes wide, before she chuckles, shaking her head and bumping her shoulder against him. 

“He may have invited me here, but can’t I be curious?”

“Curiosity gets you-”

“Killed, yes thank you for that.” Geralt gives her an unimpressed look, but the sight of her here is too good for him to pretend to be mad. “Really Geralt, what are you doing down there?”

“Making perfume.” Ciri laughs, shaking her head, but she stops when Grealt stares, stone faced. 

“For what?” Geralt doesn’t answer, instead fishing the vial from his pocket and carefully unstopping it. Ciri leans in, sniffing and pausing. She sniffs again, closing her eyes for a moment before Geralt stoppers the vial again. “It’s lovely. Not too strong. Something I could wear.”

“You’d wear it?”

Ciri nods, moving to sit on the low wall bisecting the garden from the rest of the vineyard. “A monster won’t think much of someone smelling of mandrake root.”

“You’ll be easy to track.”

“The Elder blood makes that easy enough already. Could I take some?” Geralt pauses, as if never having considered someone else would want it. 

“No. Something different for you.”

“I get my own?” Geralt nods, trying not to smile at the way Ciri’s face lights up like he’s given her the world in his words alone. Geralt is already thinking about what would fit her, and he turns his head, tucking the vial against his thigh to hide it when Jaskier drops in between them to sit next to Ciri on the wall. He wraps an arm around her in a hug, placing a sloppy kiss on her cheek and laughing when she shoves at him, grinning. “Gross!”

“I’ll forgive you for that just this once.” Jaskier says, huffing in mock offense. Ciri snickers, shaking her head and swinging her legs back and forth in front of her. The heels of her boots tap softly against the wall, and Geralt leans himself back against it, not quite sitting. He never seems to actually sit unless he needs to. “How was the trip down? Any lurking monsters?”

“Besides you?” A smile dances across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt is beginning to think he’s the only one who didn’t know. Jaskier’s eyes flick to him, winking, and Geralt scowls. Of course. “It was good, being on the Path is nice. I had to fight Lambert for a contract up near the coast.”

“Who won?”

“The one who can teleport.” Ciri’s voice is smug and pride settles itself firmly in Geralt’s bones. Him and all the others have trained her as well as they can, and having her out there on the Path is a comforting thought. Jaskier smirks, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder and tensing suddenly. Both Geralt and Ciri notice, and they watch in confusion as Jaskier sniffs, turning toward Geralt with a frown on his face.

“You smell like flowers. What are you  _ doing _ down there?”

“... Making this.” Geralt holds up the vial now warm from being in his hand and against his leg, and Jaskier reaches with careful hands to take it from him. “It isn’t very strong, it’s only had a couple weeks.”

Jaskier tugs the cork from the top, sniffing politely. His eyes shut much the same as Ciri’s did, and he pulls in a long, slow breath, a rumble kicking up in his chest. Geralt sees and experiences the emotions flitting through Jaskier- melancholy, surprise, longing, and so much joy his vision goes blurry with it. Jaskier hardly seems to breathe out before he breathes in again, and Geralt uses the tip of his finger to plug the top of the vial. His head is swimming, and it isn’t because  _ he’s _ the one huffing at the perfume. Jaskier’s eyes open slowly, and Ciri’s voice breaks the silence hanging around them.

“So, do you like it? Cause if not I’m taking it.” Jaskier growls then, making Ciri laugh and raise her hands in surrender. 

“It’s  _ perfect _ . I haven’t- how did you figure this out?” 

“You told me.” Geralt replies, letting Jaskier place the cork back in the vial and handing it back reluctantly when Geralt holds his hand out. Geralt tucks it into his pocket, getting it out of the sun.   
  


“Right, except I was as undescriptive as I’ve ever been in my life.”

“I like scents.”

“Your soap doesn’t smell like anything.” Jaskier points out, raising a brow when Geralt’s eyes flick over toward the lab. The smile that grows on Jaskier’s face is sneaky, pleased, and he reaches out to grab Geralt’s hand. “Tell me you didn’t make soap.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, looking resolutely away from the lab and clenching his jaw. Jaskier whoops, delighted, and he hops up from the wall, bouncing on his toes and letting his own excitement bleed into Geralt.

“Please, oh please Geralt can I see?”

“It isn’t done.” Geralt protests, looking to Ciri only to find her just as eager. He groans, outnumbered, and Jaskier loops his arm with Geralt’s and grabs Ciri’s hand, dragging them two of them along and back toward the cellar. Geralt pauses when they get to the lab, stopping Jaskier and shaking his head. “That’s where the perfumes are. The soap is down here.”

“Lead on, husband of mine.” 

“Husband?” Ciri seems lost but pleased, and she trails the two of them, hand in hand with Jaskier as Geralt leads them down another level. It’s cooler underground, perfect for the casks of wine stored down here, and for letting the soap harden. The air is tinged with the acrid pull of alcohol, but Geralt is pretty sure he’s the only one who notices. He might have spent too much time down here. There are long wooden forms stacked neatly on tables in the middle of the room, and Geralt stops at the first one. The bar is uncut, just one long block, but Jaskier can see plants scattered throughout the light orange soap with moleyarrow petals gently sitting on top. He leans down to smell, making a soft contented noise. Ciri does the same, humming. Neither of them say anything for a while, occasionally taking another sniff.

“Is it too light?” Geralt can smell the soap from here, but if they can’t then he’s made it too weak. 

“No. Orange and…. Rosemary?” Geralt nods, pleased. Jaskier moves onto the next bar, sniffing it for significantly shorter before he guesses. This block is a light spring green, celandine petals decorating the tops in a pop of yellow. “Honeysuckle and lemongrass?”

They go down the line of soaps, Jaskier guessing for the most part and letting Ciri chime in when he gets stumped. A long blue block smells of water and damp grass, like rain on a spring morning, and a pale purple block carries with it the smell of lavender and chamomile. Jaskier takes a moment to properly appreciate that one, as Geralt knew he would. There’s a pink block which smells exactly like Jaskier’s new perfume- refreshing apple and musky, sweet jasmine. Geralt stands quietly while they peruse them, and Ciri’s face is warm and happy when she pipes up.

“Geralt, can I ask something?” The witcher nods, looking apprehensive and curious all at once. “Why don’t you want to retire?”

“What would I do?”

“Mmm, not sure. Stay home with your husband, selling the soaps and perfumes you obviously love to make?”

“I-” Geralt, much to no one’s surprise, cuts himself off, frowning and glancing between the soaps and Jaskier, who’s gone back to sample the purple soap again. “It feels wrong. To leave the work for others when I can do it.”

“You did it for a hundred years. Maybe, just maybe, let your daughter take a shot at it?”

“I am.” He says, grimacing when Ciri raises a brow and pins him with an unconvinced look. “What if you need me?”

“Well,  _ if _ I need the help of a cranky old witcher,” She grins when Geralt rolls his eyes, looking at him with such a fond expression. “I suspect he’ll be ready when I come and ask him to unretire for a time.”

“His loyal husband, by the way, is completely fine with that.” Ciri nods her head toward Jaskier, as if that settles it. Geralt’s expression is near panicked when he looks over to Jaskier, but Jaskier is a steady source of love and strength, smiling and nodding encouragingly. “You’re a witcher, darling, but you can be  _ more _ than that too. You can fight monsters when needed, and then come home to me and all your lovely little soaps.”

"More than that." Geralt murmurs, looking at the two of them, united in the same goal, and then down at his soap, waiting to be cut and cured. He thinks,  _ really _ thinks about leaving all of this behind in the spring- his bed, the mornings spent in bed with Jaskier, the harvesting of his plants and making of his fragrances. A strange sort of wistfulness breaks over him, and he crosses his arms as if that'll keep Jaskier from noticing. He finally concedes, voice rough. "Semi-retired."

"Great! Now I can stop fighting Lambert for his contracts." 

"I'm beginning to think you only came to take my territory."

" _ Inherit  _ your territory." Geralt smiles, leaning his head as Ciri places a kiss on his stubbly cheek. “Are you going to cut it?”

Geralt’s attention slides back to the soap, and he sniffs, brushing his fingers over the surface of the bricks lightly and then shaking his head. “Not ready. Couple more hours.”

“Well, then that’s the perfect amount of time for lunch, eh?” She’s eager, more so than Geralt has heard her be in a while, and he glances up. He looks at her now, and he can see the way her armor hangs off of her just so. It’s subtle, but Geralt frowns and steps away from his soap. He leads her back up through the cellar, leaving the scent of soap and dust and wine behind to bring her outside and back to the house. Geralt may or may not insist she eats far more than she needs to, and much to her dismay, Marlene, who’s made it her mission to fatten Ciri up, wholeheartedly agrees. It tugs at something in him to see her struggling, hungry but needing to keep her gear in good shape so she can afford food later. It’s such a familiar feeling to him that he almost wants to keep her here longer just to feed her well, but winter is almost gone and he knows she won’t stay for more than a day or two. It’ll be enough to get something started, and have her sent off with a full pack. 

When she finally does leave a few days later Geralt presses a vial into her hands, hugging her tight. “Give it two weeks before you smell it. Leave it longer if you want it heavier.”

“If it’s perfect?”

“Add a bit of water, as clean as possible, and shake it well. And… Come back to tell me.” Ciri’s answering grin is the sun, and Geralt hugs her again just to know she’s safe and whole before he lets her go. 

-*-

“I’ve procured us a booth at the farmer’s market tomorrow.” Jaskier announces a week later, laying naked with the length of his body plastered to Geralt’s side. Geralt’s fingers slide over Jaskier’s back, tracing idle patterns into his skin as he steadfastly says nothing. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, at least not for the immediate present, and Geralt mentally tries to quell his panic. Because he’s  _ definitely _ not panicking over showing what he’s been doing to the public, and far worse, facing criticism for it. Not that he’s expecting much of it. Jaskier’s arm tightens from where it’s been draped over Geralt’s stomach, and he turns his head to rest his chin on Geralt’s chest. 

“I don’t have enough soap.”

“Geralt, your lab  _ and _ cellar smell like a noble woman's bathroom, which to be frank, is quite impressive, because she certainly wouldn’t have the nose for half the things you do and-” Geralt makes a noise in his throat, interrupting without a word, and Jaskier cuts off his rambling. “You have plenty, love. And I’ve the cutest little trays to arrange them in, as well as papers to wrap the bars.”

“You thought this out.” Jaskier hums, moving with Geralt as he shifts to see Jaskier better. Eye contact makes him uncomfortable on the worst of days, but Jaskier’s blue eyes are open and honest, and so lovely that Geralt doesn’t mind staring back. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then your soap shall remain in the cellar, and us in bed.” Jaskier’s answer is immediate, delivered with a shrug of the shoulder and a kiss to Geralt’s pec. His skin twitches at the feeling, but Jaskier just kisses the same spot again and smiles. “Do you not?”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Geralt, if I may, you’ve married a master poet, a troubadour the likes that no one has ever seen, an-”

“Egotistical vampire?” The nip that Geralt gets in reply has his skin stinging and blood singing, and Geralt’s gaze is lazy when Jaskier leaves his teeth resting on Geralt’s skin, warning him. “What would you, master poet, call my stand?”

“The White Crow.” Geralt’s brows go up in surprise, and Jaskier perks up, grinning with too sharp teeth. A rush of warmth settles in his gut at the sight, and he tries his best to be nonchalant when Jaskier sits up, swinging a toned thigh over his hips and settling in his lap. Geralt’s hands go to brace him, a silver ring glinting on his left ring finger. It's deceptively plain from afar, but sharp eyes can see the vines and small, delicate buttercups that intertwine with each other, small leaves scattered throughout the petals. “You like it?”

“Surprised?”

"While my ideas are lovely and often award winning, wordplay doesn't usually interest you much." Geralt pauses at that, thinking through what he wants to say while he pets at Jaskier's thighs.

"I like being straightforward."

"For the most part." Jaskier teases, grinning when Geralt rolls his eyes. He's never going to live their twenty years of pining down. 

"The name. It's nice, simple, but it means more. Reminds me of you, and Yennefer."

"She helped a bit." Jaskier agrees, moving with Geralt as he sits up, relaxing back against the pillows. 

"She helped get me things, to make the soap and perfumes. It's- fitting." He doesn't want to seem like he's focusing on her, but Jaskier is full of nothing but acceptance and adoration, which lessens only marginally into something more platonic when thinking of Yennefer. Jaskier’s hands settle on Geralt's, holding them still, and Geralt's eyes flicker down to Jaskier's left hand. 

It had seemed so unreal, kneeling before some priest while the man had intoned, Jaskier's hand firmly in his, blue eyes fire bright. But the sight of the ring on Jaskier's finger, a simple silver band with a wolf engraved in painstaking detail on it made Geralt undeniably giddy. Jaskier catches him looking, grinning and tracing his own fingers over the ring on Geralt’s finger, swirling along the vines and flower petals. 

“Geralt, do you want to do the farmer’s market?”

“Will you be there?” Geralt doesn’t say to help, to keep him steady and prevent him from doing something stupid. Jaskier’s answering grin is enough, but Jaskier can almost never leave it at just a grin or flutter of lashes.

“Every step of the way, husband.” 

“Then yes.” The thought of going with all of his soaps and perfumes is daunting- more impossible than an archgriffin fight and more terrifying than when he’d first seen Jaskier injured on the Path. Geralt pats Jaskier’s thighs, bucking his hips to dislodge his bard and smirking when Jaskier gasps, hands flying to Geralt's shoulders to hold himself steady. “We have soap to pack.”

“It’s hardly dawn.”

“ _ And _ training to do.” Jaskier groans, falling backwards between Geralt's legs and rolling to the other side of the bed. He pouts in bed among the sheets while Geralt gets dressed, and it isn’t until Geralt comes back, coaxing him from bed with a filthy, luxurious kiss that Jaskier perks up and moves to get dressed. 

They’re training, out in the far off field where no one can really see what they’re doing. Geralt runs through his normal winter routine, but Jaskier is easily bored and uses every chance he can to try and disrupt Geralt. It’s… a surprisingly effective way to train, dodging Jaskier’s grabbing hands and whirling around him, silver blade singing in the air. He tries to keep his blade close to himself, but there are some movements that can’t be avoided, his blade perfectly in line to cut off a finger or slice a cheek open. Jaskier dodges with ease, going smokelike to allow the blade to cut through him harmlessly when needed. Geralt is so focused on the way that Jaskier dips and bends, weaving around Geralt, trying his best to land a blow he knows won’t hit that he almost misses the way his medallion vibrates. Almost. Geralt’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword before loosening, and he sinks into a crouch, rolling his sword through his hand and listening. The instant shift from lighthearted battle to a hunter, coiled and ready to spring is jarring, Geralt’s pupils mere slits among the burnt gold of his eyes. There, a shimmer in the air, hardly seen, and the quiet exhale of a breath when Geralt’s eyes land on the abnormality.

Geralt lunges, blade outstretched, and jerks when Jaskier grabs the blade, blood welling up and flowing freely as he stops the blow from landing. Regis and Yennefer flicker into view, the tip of the sword inches from Yennefer’s heart, and Geralt nearly drops his sword. She eyes the blade with thinly veiled mistrust, and Geralt straightens out of his crouch, sword tip dropping into the dirt as Jaskier lets go of the blade. Jaskier sniffs lightly, licking along the cut on his hand and letting the flesh knit itself back together. He eyes Yennefer over his bloody palm, lips faintly stained red.

“Yennefer, are those grey hairs I see?”

“Jaskier, as resplendent in last seasons silks as always.” 

Geralt watches, confused, as Jaskier’s lips spread in a slow, Cheshire grin. It shows off every one of his sharp, pointed teeth, but Yennefer grins back, fierce and bold. The mage tips her head just so, and Jaskier places a soft kiss on her cheek, moving to hug Regis tight and clap him on the arm. He’s befuddled, to say the least, and Geralt growls, sliding his sword back into the sheath on his back.

“Don’t pout, Geralt, it creates wrinkles.” Yennefer chides, raising a brow when Geralt rolls his eyes and looks to Regis to help. Regis shrugs his shoulders, making the crow that’s landed on him take flight.

“She has a point, I’m afraid.” Irritation makes Geralt’s brow twitch, and he scowls, which only makes Yennefer raise a perfect brow. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, a little birdie told us that you’d be at the farmer’s market tomorrow,” Regis, Jaskier  _ and _ Yennefer all share a look at the pun, and Regis continues on. “We’ve come to offer our services for tomorrow.”

“By sneaking up on me and hiding?”

“Merely observing. Your witcher training is impressive, the fact that you saw us more so.”

“Yennefer sets my medallion off.” Geralt reaches out for Jaskier, drawing him close and glancing at his palm to ensure he’s okay. He’s healed without a scratch, but Geralt holds his hand and presses his thumb into the soft center just to feel the skin and muscle shift. 

“You saw something, I know it. Perhaps it was a lingering scent in the air, or a reflection of metal-”

“It’s the air.” 

“The air.” Regis seems supremely disappointed at the answer, and Geralt smirks before turning back toward the house. He’ll tell Regis eventually, once the vampire is thoroughly perplexed, and he leads Jaskier and his two unexpected guests back toward the house. 

“Did you make-” Yennefer starts, Geralt nodding and throwing a sharp glance over his shoulder. She stops talking as if she’d never started, but Jaskier is too busy pestering Regis to listen much. Or let on that he’s listening. Geralt figures it’s probably time to begin to actually pack up his soaps, and he brings the trio into the cellar, leaving them by the tables with a sharp look not to mess with anything while he goes to get the supplies stashed in his room. The paper Jaskier got to wrap the soap in is a soft brown color, lightly marbled by imperfections but beautiful all the same. It’ll keep the bars from sticking to each other and make it look nice. 

When he slips down the stairs he hears three voices, talking softly, and he slows, hesitating. Listening. 

“It’s incredible. Mayhaps the mutagens?” There’s a shift, weight moved from one foot to the other, and then a response.

“I’ve had witcher blood before. It’s not him alone, or the claim. It’s like he’s a-”

“Vampire. I told you as much in my letter, Yennefer, and the fact you’re surprised is almost disappointing.” Jaskier’s voice is cool, detached, and Yennefer’s answering sigh is long suffering.

“Jaskier, shut up before I detach your head again.”

“You push too far, Yennefer, if you tell him-”

“It’s his  _ right _ to know, Jaskier. Just because you’re afraid of what he’ll think when he finds out your blood has made him immortal-”

Geralt steps around the corner finally, trays and paper in hand, and all three of them stop short. Jaskier and Yennefer are chest to chest, Jaskier’s expression stormy and Yennefer’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Regis seems to be an unfortunate bystander, stuck between two fighting tomcats. 

“Witchers are long lived.” Is all he says, setting the trays down and grabbing the back of Jaskier’s collar to pull him away. He presses a bar of soap into the man’s hands, showing him how he wants it wrapped with the paper and tied in place with dark twine. “All but the orange-rosemary. And Jaskier?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“I knew.” The room goes silent around them, and Geralt’s hand darts up to catch the soap thrown at him, stopping it centimeters away from his nose. 

“You  _ bastard _ ! Oh Jaskier, no need to worry, immortality suits me just fine, I’ve known for a while, the absolute fucking  _ nerve _ \- I could wring your neck you old, cranky, cantankerous son of a-” 

“Are you finished?” Geralt takes the yelling surprisingly well, and Jaskier throws another bar of soap, scowling when Geralt snarls and flashes his fangs. “Do  _ not _ throw my soap, Jaskier.”

“Shall I throw a casket of wine, then, or- or-” Jaskier’s shoulders deflate all at once, and his anger collapses in on itself, like a star on its last life. “Should I throw myself at your feet, begging for forgiveness?”

“Might be a sight.” Geralt agrees, Yennefer scoffing and Regis coughing awkwardly into a fist. Geralt isn’t sorry when he sees the watery smile it brings to Jaskier’s face. “Can I tell you when I knew?”

"Three words or less.” Jaskier replies, and Geralt chuckles softly, moving to show Yennefer how to fill perfume bottles. The busywork of his hands makes it easier for the words to come to him, for the story to come in choppy, ugly stutters and stunted sentences.

“I was hunting. While you were recovering. It was after I’d left in the spring, and there was a contract for a cockatrice. It was early in the season, and easy enough work. But it wasn’t a cockatrice.” Geralt takes a moment, listening to the soft scratching of Regis’ quill. Of course he’s taking notes. “It was a griffin- an archgriffin. I had prepared badly, and it was old, cunning. It managed to catch me by the back of my gambeson, lifting me up into the air, and when it had decided I was ready enough, dropped me.”

“No.” Jaskier whispers, shaking his head as if to banish the thought. 

“I can handle a fall, but it was smart, and dropped me off the side of a ravine. I hit nearly every wall on the way down, could feel my skull crack open and hear my spine breaking from the impact of when I finally landed.”

“Stop.” Jaskier pleads, tears leaving wet trails on his cheeks. Geralt’s face is so full of sorrow that it stuns even Yennefer, but his eyes never leave Jaskier. “You didn’t.”

“I did. There, in that ravine. I woke up a month later, covered in dust and blood, and by the time I climbed out of the ravine, Eskel had taken care of the griffin. And I-”

Geralt drops into silence then, staring down hard at his perfume. His eyes fly up to meet Jaskier’s suddenly, and Yennefer is very aware that whatever conversation they’re having, it’s one she’ll never be privy to. For once, she doesn’t mind the secrets kept from her. Regis beckons her over to his corner of the table, and his voice is low as he explains. 

“They share a bond that transcends anything else, whether between human or mage or beast.”

“Before, or after the bite?”

“Always. It’s something akin to looking into one’s soul to see their greatest fear, but it isn’t limited to merely fear. They share emotions, memories, whispers of words left unsaid.” He waxes poetry much like Jaskier would, and Yennefer wonders if that’s where Jaskier got it from. “His recovery rate, on the other hand, is most peculiar.”

Geralt glances over at the two of them then, eyes shadowed, and he tilts his head back toward the table. Ushering them back to work. Yennefer resumes her careful pouring alongside Geralt while Regis begins to wrap anew. “My recovery rate is sped by the mutations.”

“You’ve proof?” Geralt smiles wryly, capping off the last perfume and handing Yennefer some labels. The stickers are color coded for the smell, and she works to stick them as straight as she can. 

“It took nearly two years for Jaskier’s head to reattach. It took me a month to reform my shattered spine and skull. That, unless you’re going to cut my head off and compare, should be enough.”

“The wound on your side, it festered.” Yennefer points out, Geralt glancing at Jaskier when near murderous intent radiates from him. 

“Caused by a vampire.” He says in way of explanation, and while Jaskier calms a bit, the feeling of foreboding never quite leaves the room. Geralt doesn’t seem to care much at all. Once all of the soap and perfume has been packaged they tuck it away in baskets, ready to be transported to the farmer’s market. They finish in time for dinner, thankfully, and though Jaskier and Regis don’t explicitly need to eat, they’re the most voracious. Yennefer idly picks at her food, more content to nurse the Sepremento made from Geralt’s vineyard. Whatever lingering doubts or fears haunted Jaskier seems to be gone, and Geralt is caught staring more than once, though he never looks away and instead, offers a small, private smile from behind the rim of his glass. Jaskier's answering grin is nothing short of a supernova- all encompassing in its light and gravitational pull. Yennefer finds herself smiling with no real reason why.

When they retire for the night there's some argument of who goes where- Yennefer insists on leaving and coming back, as does Regis, and eventually it's Geralt who tells Regis to go upstairs, and takes Yennefer by the wrist, dragging her to the main bedroom.

"As if we haven't shared a bed before." He grumbles, Yennefer frowning and glancing toward Jaskier. He doesn't seem phased by what Geralt says, and instead seems just as inclined for her to stay. Geralt and Jaskier work to get ready to bed in tandem, moving around each other without a thought, and Yennefer stands by the door, mystified by it all. The bed is big, they'll all fit for sure, but  _ why _ ?

Geralt can see Yennefer trying to puzzle out what's happening here when one of Jaskier's shirts hits her in the face, causing her to blink in surprise.

"It's last year's silk," Jaskier says, "But you'll have to make do."

And somehow, that's what causes Yennefer to relax. Not gentle words or encouragement from either of them, but a joke, extended as a bridge over a chasm in which she has no way to fly across. She changes out of her dress, which thoroughly smells of perfume now, and into Jaskier's shirt. Jaskier and Geralt both give her a once over, seemingly satisfied with her level of comfort before crawling into bed. Jaskier commandeers the middle, sprawling wide as Geralt tucks in against Jaskier's side, facing the door. Old habits die hard, but Jaskier doesn't mind at all, and turns his head to watch as Yennefer slips under the covers, keeping an adequate distance between them. A respectful distance. Jaskier watches her with curious eyes, and Yennefer closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see Jaskier's smug face. It doesn't last long until Jaskier's hand finds hers, calloused fingers slipping against her palm before their fingers intertwine, and she falls asleep with that simple connection.

-*-

When they wake up in the morning Yennefer is smushed against Jaskier's chest, arm draped over the two of them and holding onto Geralt's forearm. Geralt is flat to Jaskier's back, spooning him with his arm around the both of them, and he nuzzles closer as he begins to wake. Jaskier's cheeks are flushed red with warmth at being sandwiched just so, but his arm tightens around Yennefer's waist when she tries to shift away. She frowns, shifting again, and Geralt's fingertips brush lightly over her hip, stilling her movement.

"You can't leave until he's awake. Arms like a python."

"I, unlike you men, have a regimen to keep."

"Later." Amusement tinges the sleep in Geralt's voice, and he hears Yennefer sigh loudly before settling in again. Her nails scratch listlessly against Geralt's arm, just small spikes of sensation, but a purr starts up in Geralt's chest all the same. 

"How much did you hear yesterday?" It's been nagging at her since last night. Geralt hums low in his throat, going up on an elbow to kiss Jaskier's cheek and nuzzle him. When the bard doesn't react other than to begin to purr as well, Geralt relaxes a bit.

"Most of it. He's- afraid. That what he does- is- will be too monstrous for me."

"You're a witcher." She doesn't want to have to point out the obvious, but judging by Geralt's soft laugh it hasn't passed him by unaware. 

"As much a monster as him."

Yennefer rolls her eyes, used to Geralt's mentality, but there's an acceptance that wasn't there when they met, years and years ago. The sun hasn't quite risen yet, coloring the sky purple and casting long, dim shadows, but Jaskier shifts as if blinded, groaning. Geralt nuzzles his cheek again, and this time Jaskier turns his head, catching him in a soft kiss that Yennefer looks away from. It should be more awkward, the three of them like this, Yennefer being Geralt’s… something, and Jaskier his husband, but Geralt seems content to have them both nearby. Now that Jaskier is awake Yennefer slips from bed, brushing a lock of black hair from her face and conjuring a portal. She leaves to do her regime, as she so aptly called it, leaving the two of them to get dressed. 

Geralt has no clue what he’s supposed to wear to a farmer’s market, whether he should be in armor or not. He feels too naked just thinking about being in public without armor, and so he slips it on, doing the clasps and securing his swords. He looks more suited for battle than soapmaking, and Jaskier grins, fond.

“No one is going to attack you, love.”

“Rather not tempt fate.” Is all Geralt says in reply, Jaskier acquiescing with a chuckle. Geralt is for the first time in his long life, actually nervous. He remembers faintly through shattered memories being nervous to do the Trial of the Medallion, of looking in the mirror and seeing a shock of white hair after the Trial of the Grasses. But this is different- his stomach twists and flops, his slow heart beating a tick faster when they gather their things and wait near the stables for Yennefer to reappear. It’s mixed with anticipation, like the rush before a hunt when he finally finds his monster, and only his training keeps him from reacting when Yennefer appears next to them with a deep, resounding whoosh. 

Yennefer suggests teleporting, but Geralt shakes his head firmly, wrinkling his nose. They walk, baskets draped over their arms and the scent of soap and perfume in the air. It’s going to be a warm, sunny day, and Geralt worries about his perfumes, but the glass is dark and Jaskier has brought a cloth to cover them with if needed. The farmer’s market is quiet in the early morning, and Jaskier checks in and gets the number of their booth, leading them down the row and stopping at a booth on the far left. They’re almost at the end, which Geralt knows is probably not a good spot to be, but it’s the perfect place to start. The booth holds a large wooden table and a few stools, lined neatly against the back wall. Geralt eyes the table with distrust, nudging it with his foot to see how steady it is. It doesn’t shake under the movement and Geralt nods, allowing Jaskier and Yennefer to begin setting up. 

He might be the one who made the soaps, but Jaskier and Yennefer both insist that he doesn’t have an eye for decorating and placement the way that they do. They spread a white tablecloth over the surface, and begin placing things in their spots. The perfumes go in the center, farthest from the sun coming in through the lattice canopy above the market, the unwrapped orange-rosemary soap to the left on a whtie tray. The other soaps, the ones that have been wrapped, are placed haphazardly and without a care, a few purple here, a couple green nestled by the blue, pink scattered throughout. It doesn’t make any sense to Geralt, but the spread of colors draws his eyes, and he has to admit that they might know what they’re doing, just a bit. 

Geralt settles behind the table, perching on a stool and watching as Jaskier and Yenenfer stand by the table, tweaking things occasionally until Regis tells them to leave it alone. Anymore fussing and they’ll ruin the artful display they’ve made, he says. They finally settle behind the display as people begin to arrive to browse, and Geralt settles in for the long haul. They’re left alone for the better part of the morning, but eventually people drift over, peering curiously at the soaps and even more so at Geralt. They stare, most with unabashed fear and confusion, but others with polite interest, eyeing his swords before asking what scents he’s created. Most people leave with at least one bar of soap, a vial or perfume if they’re particularly taken by a scent.

“How much for the lavender perfume?”

“20 crowns.” The woman hmms and haws, debating, but the vial is in her hand and the coins in Geralt’s quickly.

“What other scents are you going to make?”

“Depends on what you want. Describe a scent, and I’ll do what I can.” Jaskier grins beside Geralt, nodding his head when the woman looks doubtful. He points at the pink soap, watching as the woman sniffs it curiously before speaking.

“That, my dear, is a scent from my childhood, lovingly remade without a whiff of the original.”

“Truly?”

“My lady, would I lie to you?” Jaskier’s grin is disarming, and she blushes, clutching her perfume close and shaking her head. 

“Of course not. My husband had a cologne once, suffused with pine and sage. He- died a few years back, and I haven’t found where he purchased it from.”

“Come back in two weeks.” Geralt’s voice is soft, and the woman nods before hurrying away, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. Geralt’s mind whirls around the two scents- they compliment each other well, but he doesn’t have access to sage this early in the season, and he-

“Geralt, you’ve but to ask.” Yennefer says, interrupting Geralt’s worried thinking. She waves a hand when he scowls at her for reading his thoughts, but that  _ was _ going to be his next plan of action. It saves him from speaking he supposes. Geralt is still thinking while they sell through soap, more and more people crowding to the back of the market to catch a whiff and a look. The sight of a witcher, two humans and a sorceress selling soap quickly becomes the highlight of the day, and Geralt can hear the whispers as people pass by. 

_ He’s a witcher- Geralt of Rivia they call him. _

_ The Butcher of Blaviken? What’s he doing here? _

_ Selling soap, apparently. That sorceress must have something on him. _

_ But there are others? Surely she can’t control them all. _

And on and on it goes. Geralt’s nerves become more and more frazzled every time he hears them mutter under their breath.  _ Butcher. Butcher. Butcher. _ He isn’t sure what he expected- for him to be so far south that stories wouldn’t travel? Words have haunted Geralt for as long as he’s been on the Path, twisted stories and retellings that only get worse with age. His head is pounding by the time the market is over, and Geralt stands behind his table, staring at the meager stock of soap left after the day while trying to stop the spinning of his head. He can hear Jaskier and Yennefer politely turning people away, saying that they’ll have to come earlier next time, but he doesn’t look up. He’s so intent on  _ not _ looking up that he doesn’t notice Jaskier sidle up beside him, placing his hand on the table next to Geralt’s.

He’s warm and mercifully quiet for once, and Geralt releases a hard sigh when Jaskier’s pinky loops with his, holding on loosely. The touch says a million things that Jaskier doesn’t.  _ I’m here for you. I love you. Don’t listen to them No matter what others say, you are  _ **_good_ ** _.  _ Geralt breathes in time with the rise and fall of Jaskier’s shoulders, letting the tension leak from him until he can finally look up, golden eyes flashing in the sunset painting the market. 

“I’d say we did fairly well, hmm love?”

“Better than I expected.” He admits, and the coin purse they have is almost overflowing. It’ll do a lot to get himself more supplies, more scents, and maybe something for Jaskier to show his appreciation. 

“Would you do it again?” Jaskier asks, voice deceptively light. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s hope, like a flower unfurling in his chest, and he moves to begin packing away the soap that didn’t sell. 

“I have to make that perfume. The pine and sage.” It isn’t a proper answer, but Jaskier laughs, nodding his head.

“That you do, love.” 


End file.
